


0,2%

by Xenay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Autoimmune disease, Chronic Illness, Dysautonomia, Exercise intolerance, Fainting, Gen, I am the queen of drama, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a Saint, Neurodiversity, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, Sickfic, a lot more drama than expected, but then again, pots - Freeform, presyncope, syncope, tachycardia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 29,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay
Summary: You don't know devastation until you get diagnosed with something that could kill you within the next few years.POTS - Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndromeAbout 0,2% of the world population are diagnosed with POTS, 80% are women between 20 and 40 years. Diagnose factors: a difference in the pulse of over 30 beats between laying down and standing up within ten minutes, and then having a constant pulse of 120bpm or more. It mostly occurs after viral infections or surgeries, and in all forms of EDS.Cover art: https://www.deviantart.com/xxenayx/art/POTS-0-2-Sherlock-fanfic-cover-846956468
Comments: 69
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well guess who is collecting diagnoses this year.  
> Some might already know about how I gave Sherlock tachycardia in my This Just Ain't Living fic. Well the thing is, it's not just tachycardia..

[Video](https://youtu.be/0XkmvFtaOe0)

He noticed that something was off after the surgery that removed the bullet just barely beneath his chest.

He would feel his heart doing backflips whenever he got up, gotten used to the black vision that always wrapped it's arms around him and sometimes left him needing to hold on to the walls or furniture in order not to land in a heap on the floor. The stabbing pains in his heart region only concerned him the first few times, but after the fifth time and no heart attack, he just ignored those as well.

He doesn't tell John. It's most likely just his body dealing with the rest of the anesthetic and painkillers, Sherlock tells himself, no reason to worry.

\---

It doesn't get better. It's four months after the surgery and none of the symptoms have stopped. If anything, they have become worse, if what happened today was anything to go by.

John had been over, still not forgiving Mary, and like some weird coincidence, Lestrade had asked for their help about half an hour later.

Normally Sherlock didn't get up unless absolutely necessary when John was around, and if he did get up, he was so used to the dizziness and black vision by now that he just walked through the temporary blindness and pretend like nothing is ever the matter.

This time though, the blackness wasn't receding after the usual five seconds. In fact, his legs nearly gave out under him as he held on to the kitchen table, panting slightly. 

John hadn't been looking, too distracted by texting with Lestrade to notice his friend's dilemma. 

Get it together, Sherlock scolded himself when he could finally see again, clenching his fists that rested on the surface of the table, standing slightly hunched over.

"You sure you're up to it?" John suddenly asked from behind him. 

"I'm fine." Sherlock had accidentally snapped at him in his frustration of being seen so vulnerable.

John gave him a concerned glance. "You sure? You're looking a little.. uh.. paler than usual." Not to mention the dark rings under the detective's eyes. John had always suspected some sort of anemia, but hadn't given it too much of a thought since it was never too much of a problem.

"Positive. Let's go. Murderers don't tend to wait for people to catch them." 

And so they went to New Scotland Yard headquarters. 

Greg actually welcomed them more than usual, giving Sherlock a pat on the back. "Welcome back, mate."

They hadn't seen each other since the hospital, and his sickly looking appearance didn't scare Greg off as much as it did John.

Greg motioned for them to follow him into the evidence room, where he already had the case folders and evidence bags lain spread out on a large table.

To his dismay, Sherlock found that he couldn't really concentrate. For a few minutes, Lestrade was rambling over all the facts that he had while Sherlock gave the folder a glance over. 

The standing around was making him antsy, wanting to pace about, and sit down at the same time. 

Then he accidentally dropped the folder, and the loose pictures in it, on the floor. Giving an annoyed grunt, he bent down to pick everything back up, ignoring how Lestrade had stopped talking and how both of the other men were staring at him.

Finally he got everything sorted again and stood back up. 

This time a very fierce stabbing that accompanied the intense blackness, made him suck in a breath, before promptly collapsing to the floor, unconscious.

The last thing he heard were surprised gasps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to take a veeery long time before they even find out that PoTS exists. Long, frustrating chapters.
> 
> I'm currently in a neurology and psychology rehab facility because of dissociative episodes/psychogenic seizures. So I'm not really focusing on PoTS right now, even though it's making a lot of things difficult here, since the clinic is on a hill and you have to walk up steep ways to get to the therapy houses. Please excuse when it takes me a long time to update on here, it's not that I don't want to continue this, but that my brain is busy being egoistic lol

John had immediately switched to doctor mode, checked for breathing and a pulse, then got his friend turned into recovery position with Greg's help.

He kept his finger at Sherlock's wrist, frowning. He looked up at Greg. "Fetch me a glass of water for him?"

Greg nodded and left, after glancing at his fallen detective one last time.

John sighed, then pushed his sleeve down with his leg as he kneeled next to his still friend. Blood pressure might be a bit low but otherwise... there was just.. nothing. He couldn't fathom why he had fainted.

"Here, mate." Greg said as he came back with the water. He put it down on the evidence table so that nobody would accidentally trip over it.

Sherlock started blinking, and realized that he was on the floor.. somewhere. He looked around, finding John staring down at him, hand still touching his arm. "Hey, mate. You feeling okay?" John asked him gently. He let him go and helped him as he pushed himself up so that he was sitting on the floor.

Sherlock noticed pains in his head, shoulder, lower back and bottom. must have fallen on my left side, he deduced. Probably going to leave bruises later. 

Greg handed him the water, which Sherlock refused at first. "Sherlock." John said pointedly and he relented.

Once Sherlock gave the glass back to Greg, John got to the point. "So, why does my best friend randomly faint, with no exercise involved?"

Sherlock frowned but didn't meet his face.

"When's the last time you ate something?" John asked him.

"Yesterday? Yesterday. Probably. Or maybe the day before. I don't know. No, definitely yesterday. ....I think.." Sherlock rambled, which was weird to both men sitting before him. 

John mentally sighed as he shook his head, and turned to Greg. "Could you-" "On it."

Sherlock then tried to get up again, making John panic. "No! No no no no no..  _ no_ _!_ "

" _ Yes _ ." Sherlock answered mockingly.

"No! Sit down. I didn't say you were allowed to get up."

"Oh? Well excuse me,  _ Doctor Watson_, but I'm not your patient, last time I checked." Sherlock argued and got up anyways, then regretted it when his heart was racing once again like mad in his chest and his head was engulfed in darkness for a moment.

He made the mistake of moving a hand to his forehead as he leaned against the table with his hips. He felt a hand grabbing one of his arms and deduced that John was holding him, just in case. "And this is why I told you to sit down. Gosh. You're such an idiot sometimes.." John complained and Greg came back with two snack bars.

"Sherlock, are you being a handful for poor John, again?" Greg teased gently, handing John one of the bars. Then he realized that John was holding onto him and that Sherlock looked about to keel over,  _ again_.  " _Shit_ ,  sit down before you fall down, please." 

"Why do you keep repeating yourselves..." Sherlock mumbled behind the hand on his face, but let John push him back down to the floor again.

"Because you're a git sometimes and don't know your own limit." John said, amused now that Sherlock seemed a bit back to normal. 

The doctor opened the wrapping and handed Sherlock the first bar. "Now eat it, please. Greg has work to do and needs you."

Sherlock grumbled something about him always doing their job as he took the bar and bit into it with a pout.   
  


John's theory, that it was just blood sugar, went out of the window when Sherlock finally sat down a good twenty minutes later, when he was once again on the edge of falling unconscious. 

"Dizzy?" The doctor asked him when he had his forehead resting on his palm. 

Greg didn't seem pleased at all. "Look, if you're sick, go home." He said gently. 

"M not s'ck.." came the mumbled reply from the slumped detective. He just wanted to lay down, but as nice as the floor seemed as an option, he wouldn't do that in front of others.

"Yeah, I can see that, mate." Greg joked. 

John rolled his eyes. "Come on. Maybe you're just coming down with something." He started grabbing at Sherlock and pulled him up a bit.

Sherlock was not cooperative, so Greg helped John from the other side to get him on his feet.

The lack of fight had both concerned. 

Once they managed to get Sherlock home, John had him lie down in his bed. He felt for a fever, but didn't find one. "Maybe you're just tired." John concluded. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Mmmh.."

"I'll take that as a 'I have completely erased the concept of sleeping from my hard drive and don't know what you're talking about'."

"Mmmmmmh."

"Yeah, thought so. Get some sleep." John ordered. "And maybe then you can focus on the case." He added as he went to the bedroom door.

"I am fine. I am so,.. so.... wonderfully.. perfectly...."

"Yeah, I know, mate. I know." John said and closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna keep putting information bits in the summary parts, shall I? XD
> 
> Publications on the Dysautonomia International website show the quality of life seen in people with POTS is equivalent to that of people with COPD, congestive heart failure, and those on dialysis in end-stage kidney failure. It is not deadly, but it can certainly ruin your life. Approximately 25% of people with POTS are so disabled they are unable to work or attend school. There is a wide range of severity. Some people have mild symptoms, while others are bedridden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my mum suspected that maybe I always had PoTS in a very slight form, but after the first surgery it got so out of control and it's been getting worse. I was diagnosed on the 17th December last year, with 'severe orthostatic dis-regulation' since the acronym POTS isn't known in my country lol so if anything seems a bit overly dramatic to you, it's because everyone has a different 'case' of it, it's a whole spectrum and like it says in the summary on this chapter, there are people who are barely affected, while others have severe limitations. I seem to be somewhat in the middle, and on bad days I'm completely bedridden.
> 
> In case you didn't hear, Germany was/is hit by hurricane 'Sabine'. I couldn't sleep at all last night because of horrible chest pains. Apparently, while other people get headaches, my heart throws a major tantrum lol. Anyways, here is the new chapter! ^^

Sherlock woke up late the next day, feeling just absolutely worn out. The case.. he had to solve the damned case..

With more effort than it should have taken, he got up from his bed and stumbled the few steps to the bedroom door, when his vision went back to the familiar black. Pressing his back against the doorframe, willing himself not to collapse, he waited for the blackness to subside.

It took almost a whole minute for him to be able to see again, and he had felt close to falling down a few times.

"You shouldn't be up." A voice startled him. He looked over to see his older brother standing a few paces away from him, deep concern plastered on his face. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock snapped and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning away from the door as to appear completely fine and dandy.

"John told me you might be sick. And by what just happened, I have reason to believe him."

"It's just blood sugar. Not that you would know anything about that." Sherlock said, glaring at his brother. "Put on four pounds since I last saw you." 

"And you lost four pounds, by the looks of it maybe even more. And you're not diabetic." Mycroft argued.

"How would you know? Maybe my drug habits have done something." Sherlock was seriously starting to want to sit down now, but he wouldn't. Because it would give his brother more of a reason to think that something was wrong with him.

And something Was wrong with him. But he knew as well that it wasn't diabetes. He didn't have the symptoms of it.

"Sherlock?" His brother snapped him back to reality. "Please sit down, you have gone seriously pale."

Sherlock barked a laugh and walked into the kitchen. "I'm always pale. In case you've forgotten, it's been like that since we were kids." He would have preferred a smarter remark, but it was a bit hard to breathe all of a sudden. And hot. 

He went to open a window and leaned into the slight breeze that came his way.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said annoyed. "I know that something is up. And I really hope that it's not what I think it is." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and decided to humor his brother. "And what, dear brother, do you think it is?"

Mycroft sighed and looked down to his umbrella for a moment. "I dearly hope you haven't gone back to your.... habits."

So that's what this was actually about. He now thinks that he's back on drugs. "Oh is that it? I get dizzy and suddenly everyone just assumes that I'm back on drugs. Really impressive, you are useless!" Sherlock exclaimed and whirled around, grabbing the tea pot and filling it with water, completely giving his brother the cold shoulder. 

"You did not just get 'dizzy', though. You completely fainted. You haven't left the flat for weeks before this.. episode. You've lost weight. You're incredibly pale. You're _shaking_!" Mycroft suddenly yelled and it was only then that Sherlock realized that, indeed, he was trembling. How odd, and very much against his favor.

"I'm fine." Sherlock argued, turning the tap off and turning on the stove to heat the water. He _reeaally_ felt like the floor looked incredibly inviting. It was as if the earth's gravity force was suddenly so much stronger. He looked over at his brother, who was completely fine with standing there for longer than when Sherlock had emerged from his bedroom. 

Nobody else had this issue, it seemed. People can just chat for hours, standing in the same position, and Sherlock was already struggling to keep still and not shift his weight as he waited for the water to boil.

Suddenly he felt very sick. Sick to his stomach. And for a moment he wondered if he would throw up or faint in the next ten seconds. 

He could faintly hear his brother talking about something, but he wasn't listening. His vision was going black again and his heart was stabbing again in his chest. 

He wondered if that whistling was the kettle or a tinnitus, that he heard before he was forced on the ground against his will.

Thank god that he hadn't gone completely unconscious again. The vision and hearing returned shortly after he was on the floor, the bruises from yesterday protesting, and he could feel hands touching him, which he tried to flick away. He pushed his upper body up with one arm, his other hand was touching his forehead as the dizziness whirled about in his head.

Once he could see again, he kept blinking and saw his brother kneeling before him with a very worried face. He heard the kettle whistling and tried to get the focus on that. "Kettle's boiled.." he said weakly.

"Not my priority. Water can't start a fire." Mycroft argued and took Sherlocks free hand against his will, and felt for his pulse.

It felt a bit weak but otherwise... it skipped a beat there but that was probably due to his near fainting spell. Mycroft didn't seem too happy though. "Stay down, I'll make you some tea. Your blood pressure is a bit low." 

Sherlock tried to get up anyways, only to be pushed down none too gently by his brother's firm hand. 

He wouldn't have been able to get up on his own, anyways. So he stayed down while his brother got the tea ready, feeling pathetic on the cold tiles and thinking about the unfairness of it all.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft helped his brother get over to the sofa (they had to stop once after a few steps because the black vision had returned) and handed him some sugared tea. “I want to have you looked over by my doctors.”

Sherlock almost spat the tea out. “Forget it!”

“Then have John look you over! Your health is no funny business! Not with your history!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Again with the drugs! I told you: I’m not using!” He said and slammed the porcelain cup on the table.

Mycroft leaned closer to him and looked him deeply in the eyes. “This is a matter of importance, Sherlock. Wether you like it or not.”

Sherlock sighed. 

Mycroft let a hand slide over his face for a moment. “I know that you know that _something_ isn’t right.”

“Of course something isn’t right.” Sherlock bit out as he averted his brother’s gaze. “Just wait until the media hears about it. ‘Sherlock Holmes, fainting on cases’.” He mockingly said.

Mycroft glared at him. “Forget about the cases! About the media! What if it happens when you cross a street?! Or just climbing stairs! If you keep getting dizzy and fainting like that, you bring yourself in danger!”

Sherlock looked down to the floor. He hadn’t thought about it like that until now.

“Please.. have John take you to the surgery if you won’t let me help. Let him check you over completely.” Mycroft pleaded.

Sherlock took the tea in his hands again, watching the liquid circle about from the movement. “Damn blood sugar.” He cursed before he made to get up, only to have Mycroft hand him his phone - how and when ever he had gotten it. With a sigh he accepted it and looked for John’s contact.

-

“So let me get this straight. Your brother wants Me to check You over?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

“And you listened to him?” John mocked with a laugh.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Can we please just get it over with?”

John grabbed his stethoscope and opened the blood pressure cuff and came back over to Sherlock, who was perched on the exam bed. “Only because you said ‘please’. Take your shirt off.”

-

“So, your blood pressure is in the ‘okay’ range, pulse is a little elevated but nothing worrying, and your heart and lungs sound clear.” Somehow those words didn’t make Sherlock feel better. He had suspected an underlying heart condition, judging from the chest pains he felt, sometimes on a daily basis.

John took a tourniquet next. “What arm do I get?”

Sherlock gave a small sigh and stretched out his left arm; his right was too scarred from the track marks. He didn’t flinch when John stabbed him with the needle.

Maybe it was just anemia? He thought as he watched his blood get sucked in the vile. It looked normal to him, but he was no doctor.

When John had Sherlock press a small pad on the wound, the doc asked “what do you want next?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m suspecting the problem is just blood sugar or something.”

John ‘hmm’ed. “Might be a possibility.” He said and looked through the cupboards for his blood glucose kit. When he had it, he said “Finger.”

Sherlock gave him his left pointer finger, still pressing down on his elbow with his right hand. 

John pricked his finger, short and painless, and got a drop of his blood on the test stripe. While they waited for the results, John cut a piece of medical tape and taped the pad to Sherlock’s elbow. 

“Are you dizzy at all, right now?” John asked him. Sherlock shook his head.

John frowned in thought for a moment, then checked the device. “Blood sugar is good. You actually ate something this morning?”

“If you count sugared tea, then yes.”

John ‘hmm’ed again. “I’m having everything checked from the blood. Kidneys, thyroid, vitamins, everything. We should know in a few days.”

Sherlock only nodded. 

John opened the top drawer from his desk and grabbed a little hammer. “Reflexes next.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every location in this chapter is made up. Only Abbey Road exists.

When John was done with his tests, Sherlock texted his brother. 

So far, nothing is wrong. I told you that I didn’t need to be checked over. Stop meddling. - SH

He sighed in annoyance. Somehow, having problems that have seemingly no reason to exist, was frustrating. 

But after all these months, he had learned to live with it, more or less. Like when he had gotten up from the exam bed and he had been blind for a moment, like always, he hadn’t shown any signs that something was wrong. 

He went back to the Yard. He still had a case to solve, after all.

-

He felt a bit embarrassed when he found Lestrade. Hopefully the man wouldn’t comment on what happened the last time, or ask him how he was feeling.

“Sherlock! I didn’t expect to see you already.” Greg said when he caught sight of him.

“Yes, well,.. yesterday was just.. an off-day.” Sherlock explained lamely.

Greg still looked at him concerned. “You don’t normally have ‘off-days’. Are you sure you’re fit to help?”

“Yes, of course.” Stop stalling, for gods sakes. Standing still always made him feel off. His feet were sort of tingling.

“Alright.. but I’m sending you home if at any point I don’t think you’re fit to do the job.” Greg felt somehow responsible for him, like a son.

“Fine. Could we just-“

“Yeah, sure.”

-

“We are dealing with a woman.” Sherlock stated as he looked through the files. His mind reminded him of what happened the last time he had looked at the files, and he pushed the memories away. 

He was standing hunched over the table, holding himself up with one arm and looking through the pages with his other. His posture didn’t look suspicious at all to the untrained eye, though he was having a bit of trouble catching his breath. From standing.

“Really? How can you tell?” Greg asked him. Unbeknownst to him, Greg had texted John. He didn’t trust Sherlock alone if he were to run off in a hurry, just because his brain made a connection he felt he and to pursue himself, without telling anyone else. Wasting time and all that.

Sherlock was im the middle of explaining when his brain clicked. He looked down at the files again. “She’s gonna be at ‘Billy’s spa’ for another twenty minutes. Let’s go!” And with that he whirled out.

Greg sent John a message with the address. He had a weird feeling.

-

“Sherlock!” Greg yelled, but Sherlock had already disappeared. He would have taken the detective with him in his car, but...

He’d keep his eyes open in case he saw him anywhere. But with Sherlock’s incredible knowledge of the London streets and hidden passages and alleys, there was probably no such luck.

He had no problem finding and arresting the woman, who had been in the middle of a back massage.

Sherlock never showed up.

-

John had arrived at the spa entrance, Lestrade already had her in handcuffs. “Where is Sherlock?” He asked worriedly when he couldn’t find his friend anywhere.

“I have no idea, he never turned up.” Greg said and worry started to spread in his guts.

John turned around and phoned Mycroft. “Where-“

“Abbey Road. There is a hidden passage after a tall building. He went in there and hasn’t turned up anywhere since.”

John nodded to himself as he hung up and started running in that direction.

-

Sherlock was sure that he was dying. 

That was all he could think of as he sat in the cold. All alone.

Forget the whole ‘drama queen’ thing. He had a strong feeling of impending doom, and the insane stabbing in his chest wasn’t helping him calm down.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt not to breathe. It just  _ hurt _ .

_ Oh please just stop.  _

He briefly wondered when someone had managed to stab him with such a big knife that he couldn’t even see. 

“Sherlock!” He heard John yell as the doctor ran towards his broken figure. 

“J-“ he couldn’t talk, for the pressure made the fierce stabbing pain worse. He had gotten used to the chest pains, but this was insane.

He had a hand pressed over his heart, knowing that it didn’t help relieve the pain, but he just couldn’t bring himself to remove it.

“Your heart?” John asked, suddenly very worried. 

Sherlock nodded, unable to say anything. 

John never had his phone out faster than in that moment. Before he could press the call button on 999, he received a message from Mycroft. ‘Ambulance is on it’s way. - MH’

Okay. All he had to do was keep Sherlock alive until the paramedics arrived. 

“When did it start?” John asked. “Can you hold up your fingers?”

Sherlock tried to lift his hand but silently winced as the movement worsened the pain. John tried to stay calm but he was getting really scared now. He took one of Sherlock’s hands into his own as a gesture of comfort, but was slightly startled at the ice cold touch of the detective’s hand. Frowning, he felt for his pulse. 

It was insanely fast, and kept stumbling. 

Not good. 

Not good at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, one more chapter lol
> 
> We have reached the next stage now; accused of it all being in your head.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Sherlock had been given strong IV painkillers (not morphine) and is still hooked up to saline, and had a chest x-ray and ultrasonography done of his heart. Both were without results. 

“Doctor Watson, please calm down.” A nurse told him.

“No, I will not calm down! My best friend just had a heart attack and you lot don’t even care!”

“Doctor Watson, it was not a heart attack. As we already said, it was just palpitations. No damage to the heart.” His college and heart specialist, Doctor Foster, said. 

“But something is wrong! He recently kept getting dizzy and fainted and now this!”

“John, we understand that this is hard, but... have you thought that maybe your friend just has anxiety problems?” Foster asked.

John looked at him like he just lost it. “Are we talking about the same person here?”

“John. Just listen for a sec. You said he got shot. Don’t you think that maybe this could be psychological?”

John looked away. As completely stupid as it sounded... it might be a possibility..

-

John went back to Sherlock’s hospital room. “Hey..” he said when he saw Sherlock awake. “Feeling okay?” He asked, checking the heart monitor. Everything looked normal.

“Fine. When are they gonna remove this?” Sherlock asked, pointing to the IV port in the back of his hand. “It’s irritating.”

John smiled for a moment. “I know.” He then got serious. “Sherlock, um..”

“Yes?” Sherlock had caught on that something was wrong, obviously. “Did they find something, after all?” He was actually getting his hopes up. He just wanted answers already, dammit.

“No. I mean, sort of.. I guess?” John stuttered.

Sherlock frowned.

John took a deep breath and looked out the window on the other side of the room. “Sherlock.. you would tell me if something was the matter with you, right?”

Sherlock got a calculating look. “..yes?”

“Even on an, um... psychological.. mental level?” John asked, slowly turning to face Sherlock when he got silence.

“You think I’m insane.” Sherlock stated.

“No! No. Look.. maybe this whole thing is.. I don’t know.” He paused. “Are you depressed?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “John. Of all the stupid, idiotic-“ 

John felt whatever small bit of confidence break down. “No, I-“

“Get out.”

John blinked this time. “What?”

“I said: get out.”

“Sherl-“

“Now!”

Sherlock sighed when the door closed and he was alone. 

Great. First his brother thought he was back to using drugs, and now his best and only friend thought he was mentally unstable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note: his stats are normal in the hospital because of the IV fluids.
> 
> Personal update: my medical compression stockings are completely useless. Weeeee..
> 
> https://youtu.be/aiDRxzvwklU


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo my POTS is getting worse. YAY. Not.   
> I keep going over 160-170bpm and stay that way when I walk my dog, until I sit/lay down. I might have to get a wheelchair before Christmas, lol....   
> that had been a half joke a few weeks ago, after I ‘jogged’ (pretty much just fast trotting if you ask me) maybe five steps because my dog is still slightly overweight, I went over 160 and had chest pains for a week, going over 160 every time I so much as stood up. So I told my friends as a half joke that I’d have to look for a wheelchair as my christmas present this year if things didn’t get better.  
> I’m back on the homeopathic pills (I can’t take actual meds because they could cause problems with my asthma *eye roll*) and taking “Jiaogulan” pills that my dad got me. I had a new record of not going over 140 when walking for a bit over a week, and then the over 160-170 started happening. And it’s freaking me out. Because that could be pretty dangerous if it keeps happening (because it stays like that for a while, not going down to 130-140 like it usually would. Aaah isn’t it kinda funny how POTS makes us think that 140bpm is ‘little’ while other people can’t even get to 100? XD)

The hospital let him discharge himself later that day, since there were no results of anything majorly wrong with him.

As soon as he got home, Sherlock decided on a nice, long, hot shower to get the stickiness from the round electrodes on his chest away from his skin. Plus he was a sweaty mess and figured that this would relax his tense muscles.

He usually had cold showers to get himself pumped up for cases, but this time he just wanted to relax and forget about his problems.

The hot spray felt nice as it trailed down his body. For a moment he was in a daze. Time stood still, and nothing mattered, as he listened to the water splattering. 

Lestrade had the woman at the station, he didn’t have to worry about solving crimes. 

He’d just take a break. Take a few days off, do absolutely nothing. After all, surgeries take up to a year and longer to recover from. He just over worked himself by trying to run through half of the city. That’s all it was. 

When he was bent over to spread the body wash to his feet, and got back up, he was singing a different tune. The erratic beating of his heart was back, he was gasping for air for a moment, and the peace was erased and replaced by another bout of restlessness and anxiety.

To hell with this. It‘s getting borderline annoying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since POTS is a dysfunction of the autonomic nervous system, the body can have difficulty maintaining a steady body temperature, thus resulting in heat and cold intolerance.
> 
> I’ll add more facts again, I promise.

Two days of barely leaving his bedlater, he decided on taking a bath. He was feeling a little chilled this morning, and since showers were now ruined too, he would just relax in a hot bath.

Locking the bathroom door and turning on the tab, he didn’t hear his phone receiving a text. 

Barely five minutes of laying in the hot water, he deeply regretted his decisions. 

He felt hot. Insanely hot. 

He had a good idea of how tea water felt in the kettle.

_ Water can’t feel; stop being stupid, Sherlock. _

He had to get out. Out, out, out. Now.

Wobbly on his feet, he clumsily climbed out of the tub, barely managed to grab his towel before his legs gave in underneath him and he landed on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. 

After a long moment of just laying there and breathing, he pulled himself up on all fours to unlock and open the bathroom door, to escape the steaming air. 

Gasping in the colder air, he made a sluggish effort in drying himself off before wrapping the towel around his middle, his wet hair dripping on the floor.

Climbing on his feet and holding himself up by the sink, he dared a glance at the misted mirror. He ran his hand across the fogged up glass and looked at himself.

_Really_ looked at himself.

His cheeks were flushed from the heat, drenched hair matted back, dark shadows under his eyes. 

His eyes fell to the scar on his lower chest. What if something had gone wrong during the surgery, or the bullet had hit something that nobody knew just yet? It was pretty irrational thinking, considering how long it has been since then. 

But god damn it he just wanted to know What was wrong so that they could finally Fix it!

He sighed, running a hand over his face. His last hope was the blood test, which he should get the results of soon.

Mustering up the last reserves of his energy, he threw on his dressing gown, let the water down the drain and left the bathroom, dropping down on the sofa and letting his eyes fall closed, ready to fall back asleep.

His eyes snapped open when he heard the flat door get unlocked. 

“Well look at you, lazy butt.” John teased with a smile as he entered the flat.

His smile fell flat into concern when he took a better glance at his friend. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock made the effort to turn to his friend and sighed. “You have the blood test results, I presume?” His eyes flicked to the paper he held in his hands. 

John bit his lip as he took his friend in. He briefly wondered if maybe they accidentally switch the samples with someone else at the labs. “Yeah..”

Sherlock stared at his face with no expression on his face as he monotonously said “let me guess, no abnormalities.”

John awkwardly cleared his throat, eyes falling down on the sheet of paper. “No. Everything is fine.” 

And there it was. The truth that everything was only in his head, written in black on white.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of an experiment, and confirmation from my doctor, I can now say that elevators are POTS-warrior enemies. If it goes rather fast and to a high story (upwards), the added pull in gravity can actually prevent the blood in the feet/legs from getting back up to the upper body.  
> Also fun fact: after a period of standing, the feet will get a blood pressure of around 200, whereas the upper body has one around 40.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably my first ever instance with POTS, around 6 years ago. I had left the house to walk my dog, and barely halfway to the street I thought I was having a heart attack. Funnily enough, my only thought was ‘if I die here now, my dog won’t be safe.’ So, by whatever powers that I had suddenly gotten, I managed to get back home, up the 14 steps to our apartment, and then collapsed the second I was inside our flat. I hadn’t been to a doctor or cardiologist though, since nothing like that ever happened again for years.

“Do you really have to leave?”

“You didn’t see him, Mary. Whatever this is, it’s breaking him. If there is just the tiniest chance that the conference has an answer for a possible diagnosis, I am taking that chance.” John argued as he zipped his suitcase closed. He turned back to his wife in the doorway, holding their little toddler, giving him a sad but understanding nod.

* * *

He would just go for a walk. 

Laying around wasn’t going to help him much. Probably. 

He would just take a slow walk. No stress, no exercise. Just a stroll through the streets, with no real destination.

He got dressed and walked down the 17 steps. No big deal. He didn’t get dizzy, he didn’t feel like his heart was stabbed by a knife.

He was finally free.

The streets were strangely bare, not a soul to be seen aside from the stray cars here and there. 

He passed Speedy’s, walked down Baker Street.

And from one moment to the next, he was assaulted with the same invisible knifes like when he was going to run to Billy’s Spa, when John found him in a side alley. 

_ Keep walking. Maybe it’ll go away.  _

It hadn’t worked last time, and now as he stood doubled over and attempted to take one more step, unable to breathe, he only thought about how angry John would be if he died, out on the streets. Just like that. 

He sank down to the ground, kneeling, both hands clutching at his chest, at the invisible knife, trying to grasp it, to pull it out.

_Breathe. You need oxygen to think. This isn’t a heart attack, right? The pain doesn’t radiate to the left arm. Is that even always the case? Breathe dammit!_

Home. He had to get home. 

Somehow.

He couldn’t get up. The second he so much as tried to straighten his back, the pain intensified. 

Blue lights are the last thing his blurry vision could make out.

* * *

“You gave us quite the scare.” Doctor Foster, the cardiologist he had met the last time he was in the hospital, said when he saw Sherlock open his eyes.

Sherlock gave a weak cough. “What happened?” He was in another hospital bed.

Doctor Foster didn’t look very happy. “We got an anonymous call to, quote ‘send an ambulance to Baker Street immediately, or it would cost us our jobs.’ When the paramedics arrived, you were passed out on the pavement, not breathing, and as a result on the verge of cyanosis.” He waited for a moment to let Sherlock process all of this. “Now, I don’t know what it is that you were doing to end up like this. John told me you get into all kinds of trouble-“

“I wasn’t. doing. anything. I was taking a damn  _ walk _ .” Sherlock angrily bit back at the cardiologist. 

Doctor Foster only gave him the stone cold stare. “We have already checked you over. I have looked at your heart. At this point I’m not sure if you’re not just being dramatic for attention.”

The words stung. “Well then maybe get a  better cardiologist.” Sherlock bit back. “Something  is wrong with my heart. I wouldn’t have the dizziness, or- or the fainting spells, and whatever the insane pain is-“

Doctor Foster held up a hand for Sherlock to stop talking. “Listen. You’re 30-something, you were a drug addict for over ten years, and you risk your life for attention on a regular basis.” Sherlock was about to say something but the cardiologist kept going. “Maybe this is just your Karma coming to pay you back. Either way, there is nothing physically wrong with you, aside from being underweight. There is no malfunctioning heart valve to fix, no stents to put in. Your heart is in perfect condition. The only problem is just you not being able to accept it when a specialist tells you the truth.” 

He pulled something out of his doctor coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. “Make an appointment with her, maybe get some psychopharmaceuticals and please, for the love of God, stop scaring people on the streets and waste time that we need to deal with actual cardiac diseases.” 

He left without another word, and Sherlock looked down at the card he was handed.

Doctor med. psych. Ella Thompson

John’s former therapist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t intent to bash cardiologists. I just happened to have two very unprofessional cardiologists who blamed my depression, and ignored the fact that I had a pulse of over 180 in my 24h ECG, where I didn’t exercise at all. They told me in my face that nothing is wrong, and to please not come back unless I have a heart attack.  
> I have to see a third one soon, because my POTS has become so much worse in the past few weeks. Not looking forward to this in the slightest, but we have to make sure that my heart hasn’t taken damage.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware, I haven’t brought up every physical symptom as of yet, because when you don’t know what you’re looking for, it can take ages to notice these things.
> 
> Don’t worry, we’ll get there at some point! And to those who are only reading this out of curiosity, there is a lot more to POTS than is published in this work as of right now :)

Sherlock was getting dressed when his room door opened without a knock.

He was mildly surprised to see his brother again. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking you to a doctor that is actually worth their money. Foster has been fired, by the way.” Mycroft told him.

“And I’m to believe that it had nothing to do with you. John won’t be happy, you know. You firing his colleagues.”

“John is away at a conference, and if he is at least half the doctor that Foster was supposed to be, he will thank me later.” 

Sherlock was a bit surprised to hear that John had left without telling him. He put on his long coat and nodded at Mycroft to go ahead.

* * *

John was sitting bored at the conference. The professors were going over updated diagnostics and the newly found cure for HIV. 

He was only half listening, since none of the information was important to his mission of finding Sherlock a diagnosis. 

He sighed, wishing he’d taken his medical book about cardiology with him, so that he could keep searching through everything again.

* * *

The cardiologist that Mycroft had hired did another echo and ECG on him. “How many more times do you want to do this before you get it into your head that it’s never out of the ordinary?” Sherlock had snapped at his older brother from where he laid on the examination bed, electrodes everywhere on his chest and limbs. 

“We have to find something  _eventually_.” Mycroft argued. “Now stop talking for 30 seconds and let her do her job.” 

Five minutes later, she told them that it wasn’t abnormal at all, and while Sherlock snarled a “see?” at Mycroft, he felt more and more discouraged with every test. 

“I’d like to do a 24h ECG.” She offers next. 

Sherlock shrugs. “If I can go home, by all means do what you must.” 

“Sherlock, stop being rude. I chose Doctor Schall because she is the best in her field.” Mycroft scolds him. 

Sherlock lets her put another round of sticky electrodes on his chest without causing further problems.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POTS is believed to be an autoimmune disease, because doctors have found specific auto-antibodies in POTS patients, that are responsible for the hypotension in the legs (causing blood pooling) and others that cause the tachycardia and excessive amount of adrenaline.
> 
> It has also been found that the nerve endings towards the heart are damaged and or partly missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for switching between past and present tense. I’m so used to always writing in past tense, but this story feels like it should be in the present, and it’s messing with my head xD

While Mary was cooking, John ‘watched’ his daughter, nose buried in one of his diagnostic books. 

He was mostly skimming the pages, looking for any kind of disease that could cause fainting and chest pains.

The trip to the medical conference had proven to have been useless on his mission, so he is back to searching on his own.

“Honey..” he heard from behind him. Looking around, he saw Mary holding their daughter in her arms. “I know that you’re worried about him.. but you still can’t let her crawl into the kitchen without supervision. I nearly stepped on her hand.” Mary said kindly and with a smile, handing her back over to her husband to place little Rosamund Mary on his lap.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice her crawling off.” 

Mary bent down to kiss him on the cheek. “Take a little break, hm? Lunch is as good as ready.” And disappeared back into the kitchen.

John sighed. Rosie on his lap began to move the pages, taking a good 15 pages at once to skip ahead. “Heeey, this is not a toy for little ones.” He gently tried to pry her fingers away, but she let out a displeased squeal. 

“What’s wrong?” Mary yelled over.

“Uh.. I think our daughter might want to be a doctor one day.” John yelled back, and Rosie laughed as she grabbed more pages and flipped them over.

Mary came back around the corner to see for herself, and ‘aw’ed at the scene. 

* * *

“Oh Sherlock.. you have to eat something..” Mrs Hudson gently scolded when she saw the almost untouched bowl of muesli from earlier that day.

“I did.” He argued from the sofa, which he hadn’t had the strength to leave ever since he got home that morning.

“You barely touched it..” 

“I just can’t eat right now. I’ll eat later.” 

“You barely ate yesterday. Sherlock, I’m getting worried..” she knelt before the sofa.

“You already are worried.” Sherlock bit at her, but even though he’d been irritable almost all the time lately, there was no strength behind it anymore.

“Should I call John?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Leave John alone. He’s busy enough.” 

Mrs Hudson gave him one last worried glance before getting up and quietly leaving his flat. 

* * *

Mary was playing with little Rosie, with her favorite toy still: the rattle.

She heard John’s phone ringtone, and her husband turns off the water at the kitchen sink, where he’d been cleaning off the plates. He only shakes his hands semi dry before Mary hands his phone to him. “It’s Mrs Hudson.” She tells him and leaves to let him talk in a bit more privacy, and goes back to Rosie in order to keep the toddler as quiet as possible.

“Mrs Hudson? Wh-“ he gets cut off by whatever she said. 

“What? What’s going on?” John asks with a newfound urgency, and Mary’s head perks up. 

John paces a bit and then leans with his hip against the kitchen counter. “Can you wake him? Does he respond at all if you shake him?” 

Now Mary has gotten worried. 

There is a tense silence.

John gives a relieved sigh. “No it’s alright. I’ll be over in five.” He then hangs up.

“What has he gotten into now?” Mary asks curiously.

John slips into his shoes, grabs his coat and grants Mary a brief eye contact. “Idiot’s stopped breathing and scared poor Mrs Hudson almost to death.” And then he disappeared through the door.

—-

“I know that you say breathing is boring, but seriously?” John says in a half scold, half joke, standing behind Sherlock’s head on the sofa. Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes to look at him, he is fully aware of John’s presence.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was in the mind palace.” Sherlock argues, but like it has been lately, he lacks the actual fire.

“You’ve never stopped breathing when you’re in there, before. Not to my knowledge.” John states, arms crossed over his chest.

He gets no reply. 

It’s then that John realized “you didn’t deliberately stop breathing.” 

“I told you, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t even notice until Mrs Hudson almost threw me off the sofa with her unnecessary shaking.” 

“It  was  necessary! Who knows how long you stopped breathing for. You could kill parts of your precious brain if it doesn’t get the needed oxygen. Which you should be bloody aware of!” John doesn’t know why he suddenly yells at Sherlock. This dismissive attitude of his doesn’t sit right with him. 

“What did you even look for in your mind palace?” He then asks in a calmer tone. 

“Well, for instance, we solved a case.” Sherlock says matter of factly, sounding just a bit offended that John apparently forgot.

“Since when do you care about cases after solving them?” Then John noticed the square bulk of machinery sticking out from under Sherlock’s shirt. Without asking for permission, John bends down and lifts his shirt to get a better look, because for a moment he thought it was an insulin pump. Sherlock glares at him and just barely keeps from shoving John’s arms away. “What is this?” John asks, although seeing the thin cables going up to Sherlock’s chest under the shirt gives him a pretty good idea, but he wants confirmation.

“24h ECG.” Sherlock replies flatly and pulls his shirt down again. 

“You saw another doctor?” John asks surprised. 

“Yes and no.” 

“Huh?”

“You’ll be glad to hear that Foster has been fired.” 

“What?! When? Why? And why would I be ‘glad’?” 

“Yesterday. Mycroft deemed him utterly useless.” 

“Yest-.. why were you at the clinic again? Did something happen?” 

There is silence where Sherlock won’t look even in the direction of John. 

“Something happened.” John concluded.

“Nothing happened. I am  _ perfectly fine _ , as I’m told over and over again!” Sherlock snaps at him with a murderous glare. 

John has a feeling that he’s missed something important while he was away. 

Sherlock suddenly decides to leap up from the sofa, only to stagger and almost topple to the side as his sense of balance betrayed him. 

John is immediately at his side and steadies him by grabbing his left arm, and wrapping his right arm around Sherlock’s chest. “Easy.” He commands unhelpfully.

“I’m  _fine!_ ” Sherlock argues yet again, pushing himself away from John, although his heart seems to be going to the moon and back in under one minute, making him pant as if he’d just chased a suspect for an hour. 

John can’t help but try to collect every symptom he can see. He’s starting to wonder if maybe the issue isn’t actually cardiac, but renal. The blood test hadn’t shown signs of kidney failure, but watching Sherlock like this makes him question quite a few things. The kidneys could have been affected by his years of drug use, even without showing abnormalities just yet. 

The thought scares him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally didn’t want to use numbers at all, simply because when we see a number, we automatically compare it to ourselves. But after thinking about how else I’d add the realism of real numbers, I ended up having to add them anyways, and you’ll get to see how and why, in a couple of chapters.
> 
> I don’t care if you never had a heart rate this high. If you have POTS or other chronic illnesses, your problems are not any less worth! Remember to always love and respect yourself and others Xx

John manages to go get the ECG results with Sherlock. He suspects that Mycroft had something to do with his boss calling him, to tell him that his shift was moved to the evening. 

They are sitting in the cab in silence. John still can’t figure out if Sherlock is actually still mad at him or not. He suspects that the detective also just wants to get rid of the probably irritating sticky pads.

They finally arrive at Mycroft mansion. John starts to notice how much Sherlock seems to struggle with just getting out of the car, opening and closing doors, and walking in general. Whatever it is that’s ailing him, it seems to be progressing fast.

Sherlock is quick to undress his upper body and Doctor Schall goes straight to work in unhooking him from the device, nobody saying a thing. 

She then goes to the computer and does something, her back blocking the view. Not that John cares, he knows how everything works. He is more occupied with keeping an eye on Sherlock, who seems overly interested in the red rings that make his chest look as though he had been attacked by an octopus. 

“Those will go away better if you stopped picking at them.” John chides softly. 

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him. He just feels utterly exhausted and worn out. He very slowly manages to put his shirt back on, arms aching and feeling like lead.

They both startle a bit when the printer starts coming to life. 

Now that they are moments away from getting results, John notices how Sherlock gets more and more anxious, and not in a good way. Why is he getting so worked up? 

Doctor Schall collects the printed papers just as Mycroft finally joins them. “What are the results?”

She makes her way over to the group. “I think it speaks for itself.” She hands Sherlock the stack of papers.

John and Mycroft immediately hang around his shoulders to see. 

Highest HR: 186bpm

Time: 2:32pm

John frowns. “Did you get called on another case? Or exercised in any way?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No. I pretty much didn’t even get up much. Ask Mrs Hudson and Mycroft if you want proof.” 

John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. “You still have cameras at the flat?” 

Mycroft’s stoic glare spoke the unsaid ‘of course I do. Who knows what kind of trouble he can get into without you living in the flat with him.’

An idea gets into John’s head. “Can we see the footage of this exact time?” He asks, pointing to the time on the first page. 

“Of course.” 

* * *

The moment he sees Mrs Hudson frantically trying to shake Sherlock ‘awake’ on the screen, John realizes that that heart rate spike must have happened while he had been there. Mycroft fast forwards a little until the time on the screen is at 2:30pm.

They all watch the two argue, Sherlock still on the sofa. 

“What were you two arguing about?” Mycroft inquires. The cameras don’t have microphones, because Mycroft had used those only one time, and then Sherlock took a camera down and had given the loudest violin concerto right in front of it. 

John is a bit hesitant to reply. “Sherlock had stopped breathing and scared Mrs Hudson.”

“‘Stopped breathing’?” Mycroft carefully eyes his little brother. 

“Not on purpose.” Sherlock argues.

“How is that even possible? Breathing is an automatic mechanism. Even if you stopped deliberately, your body would make you continue.” Mycroft’s outburst gets no reply, since Sherlock can’t explain what had happened. 

Their attention goes back to the screen, where Sherlock leaps up from the sofa and almost topples over. He mentally cringes. Is that what he looks like nowadays? Like a fragile thing?

And then of course John catches him, like he is some damsel in distress. 

The time matches the time on the paper.

“So what was it? A stress response?” John asks doctor Schall. 

“Possible. Probably coupled with not eating and barely getting off the sofa all day.” 

“But he used to go entire days and even a whole week once, without any nourishment!” John argues, highly doubting that a day’s fast could possibly manage to throw Sherlock over. 

Doctor Schall shrugs. “He only had that one significant spike. During a stressful moment.” 

Sherlock has vanished from the room without anyone noticing, and John is torn between trying to find a better answer, and making sure that Sherlock is alright. 

He ends up leaving without a word, and hopes that Sherlock hasn’t gone too far out of reach yet.


	13. Chapter 13

John finds Sherlock in front of the entrance, sitting on the two steps leading up to the front door.

“I hate doctors.” Sherlock mutters without turning around.

John tries not to feel hurt by that statement, and hopes that for whatever reason, Sherlock just forgot that John is also a man of medical profession.

“I can imagine.” John says, standing there, not knowing what to do in this situation. In this moment. 

“I swear, I don’t have anxiety problems.” It sounds as though Sherlock is pleading. Pleading at John to take his word for it. To believe him, when everyone else has their doubts. 

It’s breaking his heart.

Sherlock takes something out from his coat pocket. He hands a little piece of paper to John. 

John takes it and immediately recognizes the design and font. “Why do you have a business card of my old therapist?”

“Foster gave it to me.” Sherlock says, turning his head and body to look at John. 

“When did that happen?” John could have sworn that he had been with him when he- -“why were you meeting him  again ?” He remembers Sherlock evading the ‘did something happen’ question yesterday. “Sherlock, what happened? What happened while I was away?” He crouches down to be somewhat on Sherlock’s level. 

A car rushes past.

And then another.

Sherlock swallows. “I went on a walk.” 

There is a short silence while John tries to understand how that could end up with Sherlock seeing Foster again. 

“And then what?” He gently presses.

Another silence. 

“I can’t really remember.” Sherlock admits. It’s alien for John to hear that sentence from him. Sherlock Holmes not remembering something is almost unheard of. There are exceptions of course, like the solar system, or the current president of England, but a Holmes admitting to human failures is about as common as a giraffe going for a swim.

“What happened with Foster, then? What made Mycroft fire him?” John is still a bit mad at the politician for firing a colleague of his. He’s worked with him on a few patient cases, and never had the feeling that he wasn’t living up to his job. 

“As I said, he gave me that card. Told me to get evaluated by her and get medication.” He sighs. “He said I wasn’t to waste his time on my games again, and instead let him focus on the patients with actual heart conditions.” 

John is a bit shocked and even a little disbelieving, but he also knows that Sherlock doesn’t lie to him. He may be a master at deceiving when it comes to getting information on cases, but he doesn’t lie to John. And he especially wouldn’t lie about this. 

Plus, if Mycroft saw Foster unfit to be a practicing doctor, he has no reason to doubt Sherlock.

He rips the business card into two and lets them fall on the stairs, Sherlock’s eyes trailing them as they spin on their way down.

“Look, we now have a bit of an answer. We just have to be careful that you don’t get stressed, and the rest should resolve itself with time.” John says, trying to lift the mood again. He checks his wristwatch and stands back up. “I have to be at the surgery soon. Want me to accompany you home?” 

Sherlock slowly pushes himself up and puts on a stoic front as he waits for the dizziness to pass, without showing any signs of weakness to John. “No, that’s fine.” 

Sherlock magically makes a cab appear and motions for John to get in. While he just wants to get home and be alone as soon as possible, he knows that John has a much more important schedule. 

A few minutes later, a second cab finally arrives and takes him home.

By the time he reaches Baker Street, his feet feel like he’s walking on burning hot coals and his lower legs just hurt. He doesn’t pay attention to what cash he gives the cabbie, but he doesn’t yell for more so it was probably fine, and just makes for the front door.

In front of him is his newest enemy. The 17 steps leading up to 221B. He already felt like he would collapse when he walked  _ down _ the stairs. He loathes what climbing them would do to him. 

Keeping a hand constantly on the banister and the other just touching the wall with his fingertips, he slowly makes his way up.

When he reaches the middle part that turns around, he has to stop and just  _ breathe _ . 

He is, personally, not stressing. It’s his body that’s apparently stressed by a seemingly easy obstacle. His feet just hurt, his chest feels tight and no matter how hard he tries to deeply breathe in, he ends up gasping for air as if he’s on the verge of drowning. 

He finally decides to keep going and climbs the last few steps, barely able to lift his feet high enough to not hit the edges with his toes. 

After what feels like an eternity, he finally reaches the door to his flat. Since he never bothers to lock the door, he can easily get inside (after blindly reaching for, and missing the door knob two times before his hand finally connected with it). 

He promptly shuts the door with his back and slides down do the floor.

_ Made it.  _

He wastes no time in removing his shoes and socks, and felt his burning, dark red and slightly purple-ish feet.

Since his job requires a decent amount of medical knowledge, he knows that this is the result of blood pooling.

He is just confused as to what caused it.

This needs further investigation.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not feeling too confident about my writing lately.. please excuse any spelling mistakes that you may find; I read through it six or so times now, but dyslexia will always have one over me.

Lestrade had, to Sherlock’s dismay, called him to another case. 

Since he figured out that he had blood pooling in his legs, Sherlock had made the effort in trying a few exercises to strengthen the muscles, and even started to drink a considerable amount of water. 

While he feels a bit more ‘stable’ physically, he has his doubts on wether he’s capable of handling another case. The memories of what happened at the last one are still on his mind, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.

But he also can’t say no. That would lead to questions he doesn’t want to deal with. 

So, still feeling worn out, Sherlock puts on his Belstaff in an attempt at hiding his still decreasing weight, and faces his enemy; the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock is mildly surprised when John calls to him from behind, just getting out of his own cab. He hadn’t expected to see him here. 

This would complicate matters, if John so much as loses a word about the past few days, and his apparent “stress intolerance“.

The hot sun was burning him as he waited a moment for John to catch up. Why is it so hot?

“Alright?” John asks, noticing his furrowed eyebrows. 

“Yes.” And so they walk inside the building. It appears to be a hotel, on the older side.

Lestrade is in the hotel’s lobby with Donovan, looking through a folder together. 

“Ah, Sherlock! John! The victim is on the second floor. Anderson is still taking pictures but you can go ahead if you want.” Greg calls over to them.

The second floor? Fine, he’d just have to take the elevator.

“We haven’t gotten done with the samples yet, you have to take the stairs!” Greg adds when he sees Sherlock heading to said elevators. 

Dammit. 

How he had ignored the forensic team taking samples of dust particles and fingerprints at and in the elevators, he had no idea. Tunnel vision, his mind supplies. 

Hesitantly, he makes his way over to the staircase. It has a lot of stairs and turns, and even more stairs. He swallows.

“Can you make it?” John whispers. 

“Of course I can.” Sherlock quietly snaps back at him and, supporting himself on the banister like he got used to doing, he starts climbing the stairs. John is very close behind him, probably thinks that he might trip and fall. 

Probably could be correct.

He successfully climbs the first two flights of stairs, arriving at the first story. Sherlock takes a short break, trying to silently catch his breath and ignore his heart hammering in his chest like a woodpecker. 

John is giving him a very worried frown. 

“I can do it.” Sherlock says, although neither is sure who he was talking to, more. 

“Take your time. Murder victims can wait for five minutes.” John gently tries to convince Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t listen and continues more or less dragging himself up the stairs.

He’s 3 steps away from the last flight that will lead them to the second story when he can’t raise his foot high enough, the tip of his shoe gets caughtand ends up crashing down, almost dragging John with him.

“You okay? Did you get hurt?” John asks, prepared to switch into doctor mode. 

“You guys okay?” They heard Greg yell. 

“Yeah, we’re fine!” John yells down.

“What happened?”

John is about to call back, when Sherlock makes a sign with his fingers slitting his throat, and thinks of something better.

“I slipped and fell.” John yells down. He is normally a lot clumsier than Sherlock, so him falling on the stairs would be easier to believe.

“Did you get hurt?” Asks Lestrade.

“No, I think I’m good.” 

Sherlock still hasn’t made a move to get back on his feet, and that fact alone worries John. While he’s glad that he is finally taking a break, he can’t imagine that this position on marble stairs would be very comfortable. Especially not with the bruises that he probably got forming. 

“Need a hand?” John whispers the offer. 

Sherlock makes an effort to get back up, but with the odd position it’s easier said than done. 

He manages to pull himself up with the stairs‘ railing in the end. He looks up at the last flight of stairs still before him, and heaves a sigh as he gets up the last few stairs of this flight and gets on the landing. 

“You okay?” John asks him yet again when he hesitates.

“It’s just ten more steps.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” And leave it to Sherlock to count how many stairs the flights at a murder scene have. 

Sherlock doesn’t grant him an answer and just continues up, John following close behind once again.

They manage to get up without further issues and finally reach the second story level. Sherlock is leaning against the wall for support, trying to catch his breath that has gotten quicker. He doesn’t see the calculating frown that John grants him.

“Stop always contaminating my crime scenes!” Anderson suddenly yells, coming towards them, camera in hand. 

As if to spite him, Sherlock suddenly collapses without warning, and for a second, John fears that he could fall down those menacing stairs. But when he rushes to his side, Sherlock is conscious and in a half sitting position.

He feels like he is burning up. Why is he so hot? It’s barely the middle of May, everyone is still wearing long clothing and coats. Sure, it’s a rather warm day for London, but he shouldn’t be feeling this extremely hot. 

Granted, he has been missing in action for a few months while he ‘recovered’ from Mary shooting him, but climbing a few stairs should not bother him this much. 

What’s worse is that this abrupt loss of support from his legs had landed him on the same spots as his, very ungraceful, fall on the stairs, making him feel even worse.

Sitting on the floor with Anderson hovering over him just adds to his discomfort.

“Are you done?” Sherlock asks him, keeping his eyes fixed on the camera.

Anderson regards him with a calculating glare. “Not if you’re going to collapse on the victim. She’s gone through enough already.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but swallows the “she’s already dead” he was going to say. 

Once Anderson squeezes through between them and walks down the stairs to presumably tell Lestrade that he was done, John leans down lower and asks Sherlock “can you even get up?” 

Of course, if that weren’t the case, that would quite complicate matters in regards to leaving the hotel. 

“Yes, just give me a moment.” Sherlock replies, not meeting his eyes. He finally feels a bit calmer now, but he refuses to just relax here and risk Lestrade catching him like this, and throwing him out.

He doesn’t even know why he is so afraid of being cut from the cases. The way things are going, he might not even be able to help anymore, anyways. 

Using the corner next to him, he pushes himself back to his feet, lets the dizziness wash over him and waits for it to pass before making his way into-

Someone rushes through, in between Sherlock and John, basically flying down the stairs.

Before Sherlock’s brain could even form the word “suspect”, he is already chasing him - yes,  him , 5’10”, probably around his forties - like a bat out of hell, momentarily forgetting or not noticing that this is probably a very bad idea.

John is right behind him, as always. 

Sherlock manages quite well until he reaches the first story. His vision goes crosseyed, making it impossible to judge the distance of the steps, and he halts to a full stop, clinging to the banister at the turn. John almost runs into him, but manages to stop next to him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Sherlock shakes his head and is about to resume the chase when his balance betrays him once again and he almost loses his footing. 

John has a firm grab on his biceps and holds him still. “Sherlock, no. Just wait for a minute.”

“He’s getting away!” Sherlock argues and struggles to get free. John holds him firm.

“Let the police handle it. They should be more than capable.” 

“Are you sure we are talking about the same people here?” 

John rolls his eyes but lets him go. They both resume the chase, and get to the lobby just in time to watch the suspect get out of Anderson’s grab, while Lestrade seems incapable of unlocking a pair of handcuffs to put around his wrists.

The guy makes a leap for the now useable elevators.

“You lot are useless!” Sherlock bellows as he runs after him.

The doors close just a moment too fast for Sherlock to put a foot in between. He enters the one next to it.

“Did you see which number he pressed?” John asks, joining him.

“Six.” Sherlock says as he presses the number on the board. 

Unbeknownst to them, Lestrade and Donovan started running up the stairs, calling for backup on the walkie talkie, while Anderson tries to open the fuse box in order to cut off the power for the elevators.

Inside the elevator, Sherlock is getting increasingly anxious. He feels more and more unwell the higher they go and starts pacing in the small space. 

John watches him with concerned eyes. “You’re not claustrophobic, right?” 

Sherlock is panting now. “Of course not.” His gaze keeps falling on the closed doors, mentally willing this stupid thing to go faster. 

When they just passed the fifth story, the elevator suddenly comes to an abrupt halt, causing both to crash into the walls and doors around them.

“Oh no.” John mutters what Sherlock is thinking. 

In a moment of rage, Sherlock kicks at the metal doors, which obviously doesn’t do anything besides creating a tiny dent. 

“Sherlock!” John scolds him. 

“He’s gonna get away!” Sherlock complains yet again.

“Even if we are trapped, Greg can still catch him.” John tries to reason. 

If Sherlock was listening, he gives no reply. He just leans against the door with his side, letting his way-too-hot-feeling face rest against the cool metal. 

John is getting worried now. “Sherlock? Hey, what’s going on?” 

Sherlock suddenly starts gasping for air, eyes going wide. He puts his hands against the wall, trying to get any feedback, but it’s futile. 

His ears are ringing, his vision is increasingly turning black and his body feels numb. “I’m going to faint.” He whispers the deduction.

“What?” John inquires, hoping that he’s somehow misheard. The elevator is barely big enough to let them stand with a little space. If Sherlock faints, he is not only going to risk getting a serious head injury, but he might end up hurting John as well.

John sees his eyes fluttering and wastes no more time. He pushes Sherlock down into a sitting position. He is met with no resistance, and judging by Sherlock’s now limp head falling against his shoulder, he has already lost consciousness. 

He can feel the heat radiating off of him. Raising an eyebrow, John touches Sherlock’s face with the back of his hand. “Jesus, you’re burning up. How are you not drenched in sweat?” Unless.. this isn’t a fever as he initially thought. Either way, he starts getting him out of the belstaff, which is a lot easier said than done. 

He only manages to get the arm not resting against the elevator wall free, and starts unbuttoning the button up shirt. If anyone saw them like this, people would start talking. But he could not care less right now. He has to get Sherlock cooled down.

The thought that he should have checked his pulse, just to make sure his heart was beating normally, only occurs to him after he has Sherlock’s calves resting on his shoulders, holding them secure with his hands.

Realizing what this odd position must look like to others, he mutters “now people will definitely talk..”

“People do little else.” John stares at those blue eyes looking back at him. 

“You’re back.” John states. “No no no, leave those there!” He commands when Sherlock tries to get his legs down again. 

“I detest being on the ground like this.” Sherlock complains. 

“Too bad, cause we’re staying like this until we can get out of here.” John says, giving Sherlock a stern look of ‘I am not to be questioned’. Then he glances at the pair of legs still surrounding his head. “Well, not necessarily  _ exactly _ like this, but we’re not getting up.”

“‘We’? Why ‘we’?” Sherlock asks.

“Because what’s the point of standing around for god knows how long?” 

Sherlock can’t argue with that. 

“Sherlock, can you give me a full list of symptoms that you’ve noticed? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment.

“Chest pains, blood pooling, dizziness, limited stamina, shortness of breath, most of the time I feel cold, other times way too hot,.. what else..” 

“Blood pooling?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods. 

“Are you feeling okay right now? Any symptoms at this moment?” 

“Just a bit, like I have a bunch of thin needles stuck in my heart.” 

John winces a little. “Well, you did chase that guy for a bit. I thought we agreed on taking it easy and staying away from stress?” 

“I didn’t agree on anything.” Sherlock says, crossing his arms over his halfway naked chest. He’s finally beginning to cool down. 

“Anything else I should know about? What about when you stopped breathing; did that happen again?” John asks, changing the topic. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Not tha-“ he suddenly swallows, mid talking. He looks as surprised as John. “Ahem. Not that I know of.” 

John stares at him with a puzzled look. 


	15. Chapter 15

“I want to check you over when we get home.” John says when he finally lets Sherlock take his legs back down.

“Again?” 

“I need as much information as possible if we want to find out what’s wrong.”

Sherlock sighs. “It would be easier to give information on what  _ isn’t _ wrong.”

John stares at him for a while.

“What?” Sherlock finally snaps.

“Never thought I’d see the day where Sherlock Holmes gives up.”

“I’m hardly giving up, here!”

“You’re not exactly putting up much of a fight, either.” John comments.

“You don’t know the half of it..” Sherlock whispers, and even in the tight space, John couldn’t make out what he said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock..”

“Forget that I said anything.” Sherlock commands, then turns his head to the elevator door behind him, not hearing any commotion. “Wonder if they already let him escape.” 

“Why are you being so pessimistic today?” 

“I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist.” 

“Could have fooled me.” 

Sherlock just sighs and rests his head against the elevator door. “I hope these idiots will let us out soon.” Pressing his legs together in the crammed space, he starts to really regret drinking all that extra water, now.

“Me too.” John agrees. He takes out his phone from his pants pocket. “Of course there would be no reception.“ He curses under his breath.

“The hotel was built in the late 90s, of course there won’t be any phone reception.“ Sherlock educates, eyes closed. 

“Hm.” John answers; he shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock would know this, when they’d barely seen the inside. 

As if hit by an electric outlet, Sherlock gives a sudden full body jerk, followed by a second of shaking like a wet dog. 

Sherlock then comes back to life and starts closing the buttons on his shirt. 

“Cold?” John asks.

“A little. How long have we been here?” 

John checks his wrist watch. “I don’t know, can’t say. I didn’t check the time when we got in here.” 

Just as Sherlock puts his arm back into the coat sleeve, the elevator starts moving again, finally arriving at the sixth floor. 

John gets up to have a look around first. After a moment he goes back to Sherlock. “There’s no one here.“ 

“Then let’s get back down to the lobby and see if the Yard’s most incompetent officers let him escape.” Sherlock says, having gotten up and pressing the 0-button once John is back inside the elevator.

They arrive to Lestrade berating Anderson on his failure to keep hold of the suspect. 

“Don’t tell me.” John comments, already sensing Sherlock’s inner eye roll. 

“Realist, John.” Sherlock reminds him. 

“He escaped. But we got a couple stations across of London that are aware and on lookout now.” Greg tells them.

“Useless.” 

“Yes, well, care to tell us about the victim, then?” Lestrade asks, slightly fed up with Sherlock’s demeanor, even though he was just trapped inside an elevator for twenty minutes. John is about to tell him that they hadn’t even gotten around to taking a look, when Sherlock takes a deep breath and steps forward. 

“Female in her 30s, doesn’t live around here, had to take a cab because her car is being fixed as of right now. She had no reason to be in this exact hotel. Probably died by poison.”

John stares at him in awe. “How do you possibly know all of this? We barely made it up there when the suspect chase began!” 

Sherlock looks almost insulted. “I have eyes. And I’m the only competent person in this building.” Seeing John’s look of fake hurt, he adds “no, you know how I mean that.” 

Then he twirls around and leaves the building, leaving everyone else questioning what in god’s name just happened.

“Sherlock! Wait up!” John calls after him. He manages to slip into the cab that Sherlock’s just closed the door of.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” John asks when the cab starts driving away from the crime scene. “Are you not feeling well?” He knows it’s a stupid question, and he isn’t surprised when Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him. 

But the doctor has a fairly good guess when he notices Sherlock’s crossed legs. He never sits like that, unless Mycroft is over. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? You probably could have gone at the hotel.” John states, slightly annoyed by Sherlock’s mysteriousness about the most natural and simply fixed things.

“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock scolds him for his efforts.

“Oh yes, of course, my bad. Forgot that you’re  _ human _ .” John fires a momentary sarcasm at him. He then feels his phone vibrate with a text message. “Anyways. I have to go to the surgery now, but I’ll come by tomorrow.” 

Sherlock doesn’t grant him any more words until they part ways.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people suffering from POTS have gastric issues. Since the blood pools into the legs when upright (or just the feet lower than the rest of the body), the stomach doesn’t get enough blood to function normally. It results in delayed stomach emptying, nausea, vomiting, pain; irritation in the intestines, not absorbing enough from the food.... another cause is the excessive production of adrenaline, resulting in a near constant fight or flight response from being upright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll just put information that is relevant to the chapter now, shall I? Sort of counts as a chapter summary that way haha  
> Sorry if some things have been stated in earlier chapters already, I keep forgetting what I’ve already put in, no matter how many times I read through them again 😅

His body seems to be on an ‘every added liquid needs to be expelled IMMEDIATELY’ trip today. By the time it was ten in the morning, he had needed to pee about 12 times, because he was constantly thirsty, expelling, thirsty, expelling.. the overly loud toilet flushing was also not helping with the headache he’s pretending not to have. 

This also includes random bouts of liquid diarrhea, which he can’t fathom where that comes from. 

Needless to say, the loss of fluids is taking it’s toll on his circulation. On more than one occasion he had fallen to the floor, because his strength seemed to just leave his body when he walks more than the ten steps it takes to get to the bathroom. 

When the worst of the gastric issues finally seemed to pass, his peace is interrupted when John suddenly makes an appearance, bearing his doctor case. 

“I’m not in the mood for tests, John.” He declares as a greeting. He’s been on his phone to google a few things regarding the case, now that he could more or less concentrate on the task. 

“I just want to check some things again.” John says, not taking Sherlock’s defensiveness seriously. He places the case in front of the sofa, which Sherlock is half sitting, half laying on. “You told me you have trouble breathing sometimes. I don’t presume you have been tested for any pneumatic diseases like asthma or COPD?”

Sherlock shakes his head, finally putting his phone down. 

“Right. I want to see your O2 stats.” John holds out a pulse oximeter to him. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but gives him his left index finger. John presses down on the only button the device has, and goes back down to grab his stethoscope from his case. “Sit up straight please.” He gently commands, plugging the ear pieces into his ears.

As Sherlock shortly stands up to sit with his feet on the floor and his back straight, John watches the heart rate rise up from 98 to 112bpm, and the oxygen lowered from 97 to 96%. He slows in his movements and watches the heart rate slowly go back down to 100. John removes the stethoscope from his head and looks Sherlock over. “Did you get dizzy at all right now?” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and shakes his head. He hadn’t paid attention to the little device that was hanging onto his finger. 

“Hang on, maybe it’s just faulty, or the batteries are low.” John says, taking it off of Sherlock’s finger and putting it on one of his own. The heart rate went down to 86bpm and oxygen at 99%. He frowns. 

Without saying anything, he puts it back on Sherlock’s finger. 97bpm.

“What the heck...” John mutters. Then he gets an idea. “Could you stand up for a sec?” 

Sherlock seems even more lost now, but he could tell that John might be on to something, so he does.

John keeps his eyes fixed on the pulse oximeter. 

97.. 99..107..123..135.. 142.....138.. 130.. 127..

and Sherlock is giving him that calculating stare, as if he doesn’t even notice-

“Dizzy now?” He asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. His breathing is definitely elevated again. “Why do you keep asking me that?” He snaps at John. Then he finally looks down, himself. Staring at those glowing numbers. 

He watches as it suddenly rises from 128 to 160-something in about 3 seconds, feels a sudden pull in gravity and his legs give way under him. 

He is panting as if he’d run a marathon, which, judging by his heart rate, he might as well have done. He’s sitting upright and fully conscious, much to both their relief. 

“Does this at least give you more of an idea on what is happening to me?” Sherlock asks from the floor.

John still watches the numbers, slowly going down to 114bpm, makes eye contact with Sherlock and shakes his head, biting his lip. 

* * *

The next day, they are working on the case again. 

They have been at it for hours, with Sherlock trying to figure out what poison was used to kill Lizbeth Maska. So far the autopsy hasn’t pointed to any traces of anything lethal, and by now even Greg thinks that he’s made it up.

Sherlock holds himself up with his arms on the table, visibly sweating and panting. 

“Sherlock?” John approaches him. Sherlock acknowledges him and when John holds up the pulse oximeter, he offers a finger.

“Not good..?” Sherlock asks dazedly.

John frowns. “Really not good. You’re at 172 and rising. Sit down.” 

Sherlock does as he is told, mostly due to the fact that he didn’t have much strength left to keep standing, anyways.

“God, you’re bathing in sweat..” John mutters, seeing the drenched curls and the liquid running down Sherlock’s face. 

“Yeah, he’s dripping all over the evidence!” Donovan complains. 

“As you can clearly see, he is not well. Why don’t you just make yourself useful and fetch him some water?” John snaps.

“No.. please.. no water..” Sherlock pleads breathlessly. 

“Why?” John asks.

He has to wait a bit for Sherlock to catch his breath enough to answer. “When I tried to drink this morning, I almost threw up.” He admits quietly.

John blinks at that. Gastritis? Then he realizes, “you mean, you haven’t drank any liquids all day?” It was now past 3pm. 

Sherlock shakes his head almost shamefully. Normally when they work on cases, Sherlock would occasionally drink a coffee or tea throughout the day. 

“Can you at least try? If you can’t keep it down, that means a trip to A and E, I hope you realize that.” 

Sherlock seems uncertain but nods in the end.

Donovan leaves to check the staff room kitchen at the Yard for a spare water bottle. 

When she comes back, Sherlock is laying in recovery position with Watson checking his vitals. “What happened  _ now _ ?” She demands.

“Fainted.” Greg helpfully states the obvious. 

“Is this becoming a daily occurrence now?” She shakes her head, slamming the bottle on the evidence table. “Honestly boss, he is clearly in no state to help us. Send him home already.” She then leaves, probably to tell the other Yarders about it.

Both Greg and John look at anything besides the other person. 

“Is he really well enough to continue working?” Greg eventually asks.

John sighs. “To be honest with you? Physically, no way. But his brain is still working the same. I don’t want to imagine what he would do if you cut him off.” John comments thoughtfully. He keeps glancing at the pulse oxi that still updates him on Sherlock’s vitals. 

Finally his eyelids flutter open and Sherlock immediately moves into a sitting position.

“Now drink some water, please.” John commands, reaching up to grab the bottle for him. 

Sherlock reluctantly takes it and carefully sips from it. 

“Alright?” John asks when Sherlock puts the bottle down again, the finger with the pulse oxi standing off. He nods.

Sherlock then makes to stand up, and is on his feet for exactly five seconds before his legs fail him again; John curses the number 164 and sits down next to him.

“Well, we’re just gonna hang out on here for a while, then. You keep drinking and tell Greg what you’ve gathered.” 

After Sherlock gave him all the information that he could deduce, Lestrade leaves to inform his team of the new revelations, leaving John and Sherlock still sitting on the floor. 

“I always knew I was a machine. I just didn’t know I was a Formula 1, from 0 to 160 in ten seconds.” 

“Not funny, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note: my legs often give in if my heart rate goes up so ridiculously fast. So I sometimes don’t even notice when it’s rising way beyond acceptable (180bpm) except for just feeling absolutely terrible and sweating like crazy.  
> Actually fainting with POTS is caused by a sudden drop in blood pressure. The blood pressure is normally stable, or even slightly elevated with POTS, so that fainting isn’t a too common symptom. Pre-syncope on the other hand, is absolutely normal.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another result of the blood staying in the lower part of the body, the upper half gets under-supplied. Trouble concentrating, headaches, muscle aches and cold hands are the result, and of course over a longer duration, fainting is also a possibility (though mostly in combination with a drop in blood pressure)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal life has become hectic, it takes me longer to write on these chapters.   
> I’m up at chapter 22 right now, so don’t worry; there will be more updates. I just like to have a bit of content saved up, if that makes sense.

They’re in the lab at St Bart’s. Sherlock’s been trying to figure out what poison was used to kill Lizbeth Maska for a good five hours now, to no avail. 

None of the reactions had the desired outcome, and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

He’s been sitting on the bar stool for ages, his neck and shoulder blades were now in a constant sensation of pins and needles stabbing into his muscles, taking their toll on his patience. 

John wasn’t much help on the testing; he’s been repeatedly looking over the autopsy results, coming up blank every time. In the end, it was stamped off as a heart attack. No signs of any form of poison or possible anaphylaxis.

Sherlock’s vision goes blurry for a moment, then there are black dots dancing around. He reaches blindly for a vial, thinking that he’d grabbed the correct one, and starts slowly pouring it into the flask over the bunsen burner.

When his vision clears again, he notices that the solution starts bubbling. “No.. no! Out! John get out!” He yells as he frantically turns off the bunsen burner in a last attempt to hopefully save it.

John stares for a second before fleeing the lab with Sherlock, closing the door behind them. No two seconds later, they hear the unmistakable sound of a glass shattering. 

John feels a surge of adrenaline rush through him, and Sherlock sinks down to the floor, hands over his face.

“What was that? What happened?” John asks him frantically.

Sherlock sighs, letting one hand fall down and the other is touching his forehead with his thumb and pointer finger. “I took the wrong vial..” 

“..what?”

Molly suddenly appears from down the hall. “Are you guys alright?? I heard an explosion from the other lab.”

“Yeah.. yeah, we’re okay.” John says distractedly. 

Molly makes to open the door when Sherlock shouts from the floor “No! Don’t go in there! Whatever it is could be a deadly poison!” 

Molly freezes instantly. “What did you mix?” 

There is no reply.

“Sherlock?” John tries as well.

“Sherlock. What did you mix?” Molly asks again.

“I don’t know, okay?! I don’t know!” Sherlock exclaims, hiding his face behind his hands again. 

“You must know what possible chemicals you had out.” John points out.

Sherlock sighs, shoulders slumping down. “I don’t remember...” 

Molly and John share a concerned glance. 

“Right. I’m just gonna call poison control and have the room closed off until further notice.” Molly declares, trying to help out. 

“Thanks.” John smiles at her before she leaves, then decides to get down to Sherlock’s level, placing the folder he had looked through on the floor next to him.

As he sits next to him, his eyes catch something that he hadn’t noticed until now. “Sherlock, your nail beds are blue.” 

Sherlock hesitantly takes his hands from his face to look for himself. He feels incredibly jittery, but his hands aren’t shaking. Odd.

John had, to his own disappointment, left the pulse oxi in his other jacket, so he couldn’t test him. 

Sherlock leans his head against the wall behind him, moving his hands to try to massage his upset neck and shoulder muscles, minutely flinching at his ice cold fingers touching the taught skin. He tries to ignore the anatomy lesson of feeling his own bones. 

“Sore?” John asks. Sherlock removed his hands again and just lets them sit on his lap, massaging wasn’t helping. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, suddenly feeling extremely tired again. 

John looked around to make sure they were alone. “Lay down for a bit, if you want.” He whispers to him. 

Sherlock stays sitting for a moment, then decides to slowly slide down, legs bent at the knees and his hands under his head.

He thought he was getting better. He’s been able to walk down the stairs without much of an issue, and even climbing them up to his flat was possible, without collapsing right behind the door. He could, more often than not, manage to quickly lay down on the sofa, keep his feet up, and just rest for a bit and be fine. 

Why did he now ruin the lab from his own stupidity? What had he been using? He just couldn’t remember! 

Molly came back to them, and Sherlock realizes that the muscle aches have completely vanished. 

“You can work in my lab with me, if you want.” She says, feeling awkward since Sherlock is laying on the floor. 

John clears his throat. “Thank you Molly, but I think we’ve had enough testing for today.” He says, nodding towards Sherlock, who just now pushes himself back into a sitting position. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start counting down, because spoiler alert: in chapter 20 he finally gets the diagnosis!
> 
> (I just felt like that was a good number haha, partly because I got mine when I was 20 years old. I’m sentimental like that okay?)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains some depictions of an underweight body.

John had given Sherlock his pulse oximeter, telling him to always check and to goddamn sit down when it goes too high. 

It was only a temporary solution, of course. They needed something that would always record his heart rate. 

So he phoned Mycroft. 

“John.” 

“Mycroft.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure? My brother hasn’t landed himself in hospital again, has he?” 

“No. No, he’s.... coping. Sort of.” 

“..’coping’?” Mycroft sounds surprised.

“Yeah, well.. it’s not important.”

“John, is there anything I can do to help? He’s refusing to see doctor Schall again. I have to admit, things like this are not.. my specialty. Especially not when it comes to Sherlock.” 

“There is something you could do. In fact, it’s why I called. He needs something that can constantly monitor his heart rate, and it has to be easily portable.” 

“Hm. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

John received a message two hours later, to meet at 221B. 

He found Mycroft already inside the flat, handing out a white package to Sherlock.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks as he takes it, obviously having taken note of the ‘Apple Watch’ writing on the top part. 

“It’s an Apple Watch Series 5. It has one of the most accurate heart rate monitors in smart watches. It has afall detector, which will call 999 if you are to faint or fall and get hurt out on the streets, and send John and me a message. And as a bonus, it can write ECGs and recognize possible signs for heart attacks.” Mycroft explains, looking proud of his discovery. “John, I asked you here to give you a... tutorial, on how to work it, in the case of emergencies.” 

John, who still stood in the doorway, nods and comes over. 

“It took you two hours to find out about this?” Sherlock asks his brother. “You’re getting slow, brother dear.”

“I had matters of national importance going on at the time.” Mycroft argues back.

Sherlock got the watch set up and put it around his wrist. John notes sadly that even with the smaller wrist band, they close around Sherlock’s wrists in the third hole; much too thin for his liking. 

“Right, let’s see this.” Sherlock comments and opens the heart rate app. After watching it measure, the number 102bpm pops up. Sherlock gives a short glance at his brother and John, before standing up from the couch.

Everyone leans over to watch the magic happen.

110.. 118.. 123.. 128.. 135...... 134.. 130..

“Looks about right.” John comments, thinking back to when he had Sherlock stand up with the pulse oximeter. “Although not necessarily healthy, but it’s similar to when we tested it before.” John adds. 

Mycroft then proceeds in showing them how to do the ECG, with Sherlock doing a test round, and viewing it on his iPhone afterwards. 

“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it, then. I have to get back to.... the other matters.” 

* * *

The next morning starts slow for Sherlock. He doesn’t plan on going to Bart’s; at least not for a while, not after what happened. 

At this point, he was actually hoping that the Yard would make a connection somehow and catch the suspect themselves.

As of right now, they assume that the guy brought her there - for unknown reasons - and she just happened to die, he freaked out, and then managed to escape. 

Only Sherlock knows that this was no stupid coincidence, they have a murderer on the loose. But he has no way to prove it. Not yet.

So, since he doesn’t plan on working today, aka leaving the house, he starts eating the breakfast that Mrs Hudson had prepared for him. Eggs and bacon. 

He wants to get his weight back up. Being able to feel his skin stretch over his ribs with every breath, and literally sitting on his bones was getting more than a bit uncomfortable and annoying. 

When he’s as good as done, his watch vibrates to tell him that he’s getting a call. 

Lestrade.

What  _ now _ ?

Dejectedly, he drops the silverware on the almost empty plate and picks up his phone from the tabletop. 

“Hello?”

“There’s been another one.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, another sudden ‘heart failure’?” 

He hears Greg sigh, and grins. 

“Alright, it was murder, okay? We believe you. Although we don’t know how he kills them, or why in God’s name he chooses a bloody hotel.”

“Same hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” 

“ ... will you come in, then?” 

Sherlock sighs. “Yes, fine.” 

* * *

“What are  _ you _ doing here? Don’t you have a job?” Sherlock snaps at John, who once again came by right after him. 

“Good to know how pleased you are to see me.” John mutters sarcastically. 

Sherlock keeps glaring, then takes out his phone and sends a text to Mycroft. 

I DO NOT NEED A MINDER - SH

“So what have we got?” John asks as they enter the old hotel for the second time in two weeks. Apparently, Sherlock was especially irritable today.

“He’s killed again. Lestrade wasn’t very specific.” Sherlock explains, leaving no space for further questions.

“Okay.” 

Seeing how the elevators were, once again, under inspection, they’ll have to take these homicidal stairs again.

“What floor?” John asks.

“First one this time.”  _ Thank god. _

Sherlock seems to climb the stairs with ease this time, although he shortly leans against the wall once he reaches the landing, waiting for his racing heart to slow down. He remembers that he now has a watch that can give him insight. He beings up his wrist, causing the screen to light up, and opens the heart rate app. 

162bpm right now

156bpm a minute ago

He is displeased to know that climbing a bunch of stairs has this effect on him. In the history he sees a slightly shorter line; that must have been when he walked (ran) down the stairs at 221B. 

“You okay?” John asks him, eyes clicking down to the display and back to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly lowers his arm again.

“Of course.” Sherlock countered, pushing himself away from the wall and entering the room. Why in God’s name the killer decides to always leave the corpses in the hallway is beyond him. 

Probably desperate to get caught. 

He momentarily freezes, feeling his stomach churning, and mentally telling himself a mantra of ‘don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up’. 

“I hope you already checked everywhere for the suspect. I don’t fancy a repeat of last time.” John comments as he approaches the corpse and surrounding officers. 

“As far as we know, the building is clear.” Greg replies. 

Donovan must have noticed him repeatedly swallowing, because she calls him out “don’t puke on the victim, Freak.” 

All eyes are on him at once, and he shakes his head, tries to appear perfectly fine. 

John could easily see through the facade. “You wanna sit down for a sec?” 

“No! I’m fine!” Sherlock exclaims, then makes a point of circling the corpse. 

It’s a male this time, a lot younger, just in his 20s, piercing on his left lip, reeks of alcohol. 

Sherlock only realizes that crouching down to get more details was a bad idea, when he has to get up again. He hesitates for a moment, sees John stare at him. Probably  _ still _ staring since earlier. He tends to do that. Sherlock doesn’t like it; calls too much unwanted attention on him. Especially now.

He tries to rise slowly, but at the same time quick enough as not to arouse suspicion. “Take swab tests of his piercing, the poison might just be traceable on it.”

“Again with the poison.” Donovan mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Sherlock ignores her and just leaves them again, John following him.

He suddenly feels his heart doing backflips again -  _ palpitations _ \- and has to hold on to the banister. He can’t breathe and his lungs rebel by making him cough a bit.

“Sherlock?”  _ Dear god, John, stop thinking that I’ll die if you don’t ask me every five minutes if I’m alright. _

“ Fine .” He pointedly snaps. “Utterly, perfectly fine!” He has to stop yelling, it was making the nausea a lot worse.

He wants to fly down the stairs again, like he normally would. 

‘Normal’ feels like it used to be years ago. 

His vision went blurry again, the stairs were moving. He knows that they don’t, that it’s just his mind and eyes playing tricks on him, but he freezes, right foot hanging in the air as he clings to the banister. 

The nausea was getting so much worse, he just wanted to get out of there before he’d disgrace himself. Well.. more than he already has.

He wants to take slow breaths, but they are speeding up against his will. He isn’t sure if his mind causes his body distress, or if it’s the other way around.

John watches him with sad, concerned eyes. He knows better than to try to help him in this state, watches him suddenly decent the stairs one slow step at a time, and lets him leave the building on his own.

He has to admit that since Sherlock now has this watch, he feels more at ease about Sherlock being on his own, since the watch would call for help if anything happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: neither Mycroft or I are sponsored by Apple.
> 
> As a matter of fact, the apple watch series 4 and 5 (which is based on the 4) have saved lives with the mentioned functions.
> 
> I’ve gotten my series 5 two weeks ago because my old Garmin watch started malfunctioning in the heart rate department (the most important thing to me, everything else still works ugh) and let me tell you, it feels soooo great to finally have a reliable watch on your wrist again, and I can print out the ECGs to show my cardiologist what in gods name is happening haha


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a lot of ups and downs, as it is with chronic/autoimmune diseases.
> 
> Storms always give me the worst chest pains for some reason, and cause very bad ‘flare ups’ in regard of the symptoms.

Sherlock was sure that he was dying. He was absolutely positive that this is how he will slowly ebb away from the world of the living. 

He is laying slumped over the sofa, no strength left to try to push himself up. The short walk from his bed to the bathroom and out here, had resulted in chest pains that weren’t receding, and an overall exhaustion that kept closing his eyes.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe enough air to give him the strength to just  _exist_.

Outside was a thunder storm, which entailed more of just lightning, thunder and strong wind, than rain. 

He heard the door to his flat open. He didn’t even have enough air or strength to heave a sigh.

“Sherlock?” Oh god. It’s Lestrade. 

Really bad timing.

“Sherlock? Buddy, you alright?” He was probably kneeling right in front of him, trying to judge wether he was still breathing or not.

“Can’t help you..” Sherlock whispers out. Then grimaced when the invisible needles in his chest turned into knifes for a moment.

“Bad day?” Greg asked. The officer has until now figured that Sherlock was probably just coming down with something, but since he isn’t coughing and sneezing ( = probably not contagious and infecting his team) he lets him work as long as Sherlock sees himself in a fit enough state to do so. Now he was starting to wonder if this was just a sudden black spell, as he had witnessed many times before, or if this might be something serious.

Sherlock breathed for a while. “Very.. bad..” 

“Why didn’t you answer my call? I could have called John.” Greg gently scolds him.

“Left phone in... bed room..” he hoped that Lestrade wasn’t aware that his watch could answer phone calls. He’d turned off the Bluetooth on his phone and watch last night, and hadn’t turned it back on yet, which is the real reason why he couldn’t have answered the calls. John and Mycroft would probably murder him if they found out.

He hears Greg get up and presumably get his phone. 

“Ya know, I really think I should call an ambulance. Or John, at least.” Greg mutters as he hands him his phone. 

Sherlock almost drops his phone, thanks to his weak grip. “Leave John.. out of..t....” the last word only comes out as a wheeze. 

“Sherlock.. you’re scaring me here.” 

“Please.. leave..” 

“Sherlock...” 

Greg is granted a moment of Sherlock opening his eyes enough to give him a death glare. 

“Fine. But you promise me that you  _ will _ call John if it gets any worse.”  _ Like it wasn’t bad enough already, stubborn git.  _ Greg thought.

Sherlock responses by closing his eyes again. 

Right when Greg finally leaves, Mrs Hudson comes up. Could he never get a moment of peace?

“Oh Sherlock.. you look horrible, dear.” She says worriedly, placing a tray on the table. 

Sherlock doesn’t move. Even a sarcastic ‘thanks’ would have taken too much effort. 

He wonders if it is too late to write his Will.

* * *

The next day, John is just waking up when his phone rings. He had worked pretty much all day and into the night yesterday, too many emergencies and too few doctors on staff.

He didn’t get much sleep, the storm had kept him awake and is still raging on. 

He blindly accepts the call. He only has a few contacts, anyways.

“Hello?” 

“John?”

“Greg?”

“Yeah. Look, I was just wondering.. has Sherlock called you? At all?” 

Worry starts to spread in his stomach. “No, not that I know of. Did something happen?”

* * *

“Sherlock!” John yells as he practically flies up the stairs. “Sherlock!” 

Rushing into the flat, he finds him laying on his chest on the kitchen floor. “Fuck! Sherlock!” 

He doesn’t get much of a response, though he does get to make eye contact with him. 

His eyes are glistening. Wet. Doing nothing to hide the pain.

“Sherlock..” then he spots the broken ceramic, which used to be a cup,next to him. “Can you tell me what happened?” 

Sherlock manages a tiny head shake. 

“Let me see your watch.” John commands next. Sherlock doesn’t move a muscle, so John just touches the square screen. He has to read upside down, but the 185 at the top (highest heart rate of the day)is clear to see, and a punch in the gut. “Jesus.. what were you doing? How long have you been on the floor like this?” He could see the low, dotted line after the spike, and the time, but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a quick, deep breath, about to answer, then flinches; a traitorous tear escaping and trailing down his face.

“Right. I want you to do an ECG.” John commands as he presses down on the crown and opens the ECG app. Sherlock painstakingly moves a finger and holds it against the crown. 

They both watch as the spikes dance around on a floppy line, John making sure that Sherlock’s finger isn’t slipping or anything. 

“Do another one, I’m getting your phone.” John commands and gets up.

“Sherlock.. why are there twenty-something ECGs from.... two days ago?” John asks as he scrolls through the list on his way back. Without asking for permission, he opens one, taps on the ‘Export PDF for doctor’ and looks at the weird squiggly lines. “What in gods name... Sherlock what happened there?” John shows him the screen, pointing to the weird change.

Sherlock seems to finally feel better and says “getting up.”

John frowns at him, hoping that he is wrong about what Sherlock may have been up to. He opens another one, which contains a massive change that shouldn’t even be called a heart spike anymore, then a normal heart beat that he sees day in and day out at the clinic, and then very tiny spikes at probably three times the normal speed. “What the hell..” he mutters and holds it to Sherlock once more. 

“Getting up from the floor, bending over, standing back up.” Sherlock explains, sounding just the tiniest bit proud.

“So you basically did everything that would worsen your symptoms, for what?”

“Research purposes.” 

John’s left eye twitches.

“SHERLOCK! Oh for gods sake- you are not a test subject! Why do you always have to abuse whatever Mycroft gives you??” 

“Not abusing. I wanted to see what happens. Actually see it.”

Of course, Sherlock the scientist would want to know how everything works and changes. 

“And this is what happens.” John scolds, hovering above Sherlock and gesturing to his still on the floor laying friend.

“Right, come on, let’s get you to the living room at least.” He changes the watches application back to the heart rate measure app and then helps Sherlock to his feet. “Nice and slow.” 

They make it exactly four steps, halfway into the living room, when Sherlock suddenly says “stop; down.” He’s panting excessively and John eases him back down, immediately checking the watch. 

170bpm right now

150bpm a minute ago

Not good. Really not good. 

“Lay down on your back. I’ll be right back.” 

For once in his life, Sherlock does as he’s told until John comes back with a cup in his hands. 

Sherlock drinks from it and grimaces. “What is that?”

“Water, mixed with a bit of salt.” John explains. “Now come on, I want to at least get you on the couch.” 

They finally manage to do just that, John instructing that Sherlock keep his legs elevated on the other arm rest of the sofa. The doctor meanwhile cleans up the broken ceramics. “What exactly were you trying to do, anyways?” He calls from the kitchen.

“Was trying to make coffee.” 

John looks around the corner at that. “What about Mrs Hudson?”

“What about her?” Sherlock asks, then takes another sip. 

“She is supposed to help you out when you can’t-“

“Not my housekeeper, you know how she always reminds us. Besides, she went out some... time ago.”

“Alright..? And what about Mycroft?”

“Korea. Trying to stave off a war.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Where is everyone when you need them.” He mumbles to himself. 

“You’re here.” Sherlock comments, staring right at him after placing the cup on the coffee table. 

John first stares back at him, then averts his gaze. Then, as he looks at the floor, a faint smile graces his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, I use my own numbers.
> 
> (A fellow POTS warrior and good friend had told me that when my heart rate likes to go over 200 (which only the apple watch has been able to tell me) I probably suffer from SVT as well. The original ‘highest number of the day’ planned in this chapter was 202, but after that message I decided to lower it, because this is supposed to be about POTS only.) It’s kinda scary to think how long this would have stayed undetected if my old watch hadn’t stopped working. How long it would have taken before some doctor found it by dumb luck?
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> I’ve made an Instagram highlight with exactly what is described in this chapter. If anyone is interested to see it, here is the link:  
> https://www.instagram.com/s/aGlnaGxpZ2h0OjE3ODk3OTI4NzYzNTA1NDIw?igshid=8fyfmdth2zgh&story_media_id=2344408060801711916


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope none of you think that this story will be over once he gets the diagnosis.
> 
> I always want to reach at least 20k words (except for one-shots of course)

Sherlock was exhausted. He’d had to get up to pee at midnight, and then again at 3am, when he wasn’t actively drinking a lot in the evening or at night.

So he’s trying to get some much needed sleep with the sun high up in the sky.

With the blanket he feels too hot, without them it’s too cold. 

He turns around in his bed, pulls the blanket higher to keep his feet bare.

Just as he is finally drifting off, he is forced wide awake when he’s suddenly gasping for air. His body had forgotten to breathe,  _again_. 

No matter. He turns back to the way he’d originally lain, thinking that maybe it had been the position to cause this.

Then, finally he starts to drift off again..

He suddenly feels like he’s falling. His entire body jerks and he pushes himself up to a sitting position, once again gasping for air. 

Why won’t his body let him rest, for once? 

* * *

“So what do you think he might have?” Mary asks as John looks through his medical books for the third time. “And don’t you think that you’ve already seen everything in that book?”

“Might always overlook something..” John replies distractedly as he reads page for page. 

For once in his life, John had a case that only he could solve. And he will be damned if he doesn’t solve it before a death occurs. 

“I’m honestly still a bit worried that it might be myocarditis, despite the echos and ECGs and bloods without result. You know how he never takes care of himself.” 

Meanwhile little Rosie had discovered the discarded neurology book on the floor. She seems to be very delighted about moving book pages like her daddy.

“Awww, look at her.” Mary coos.

“Wha- oh no, Rosie no! This is grown up stuff!” John gently scolds her as he gets up and walks over to her.

She is not pleased about getting her new toy taken away, so she clings to a page with her little fingers. “No, Rosie. Give that to daddy.” 

They end up hearing the horrible sound of a book page ripping out. John looks perplexed as Rosie proudly waves the torn page around. 

“Ooooh look what you’ve done, now!” John puts the book down and picks Rosie up. Granted, his books were old, they had much more up to date ones at the clinic, but he’s much too busy with his patients there, to possibly look through entire books. So John has been using every bit of his free time to help Sherlock, be it with the case or trying to figure out what is ailing him.

Mary manages to get Rosie to give the page to her. Her eyes immediately look over what’s written on it. 

“John?”

He turns to her. She is still fixated on reading. Then she holds it out for John to take, holding out her arms to exchange it for Rosie. “What about this one? It would match his symptoms, right?”

John gives Rosie to Mary and looks over the page. “Well, yeah. But it’s a young women’s disease.” 

“John, do better?” 

John sighs. He ends up grabbing his laptop and typing in “orthostatic dysregulation”.

After reading a few medical articles, John is starting to see Mary’s point. “He still won’t be pleased that it’s about 80% females who have this, you know?” 

“He’ll want answers, John. That’s all that matters.” 

They share a quick kiss, and John hurries out, ripped out page in hand.

* * *

“Sherlock!” John yells as he runs up the stairs. He finds the flat to be seemingly empty, until he finds the man in question in his bedroom.

“What are you still doing in bed?” John asks, mildly amused.

“Spare me.” Sherlock says, his right arm resting over his eyes.

“Sherlock, I know what you have.” 

Those few words alone are enough to make Sherlock jump up into a sitting position. John hands him the page. 

After analyzing the text written on it, Sherlock states “sounds about right.” He lowers the page and looks at John. “So how do we cure it?”

John is biting his lip. Sherlock frowns the tiniest bit for a second.

“There is no cure, Sherlock. It’s.. it’s a chronic illness. There are treatment options, of course-“ Sherlock is blinking rapidly.

“No c- what do you mean there is no cure? Surely there has to be something, in all of my cases I have never stumbled upon this..... thing!” 

“Sherlock, I get that you’re angry-“

Sherlock laughs darkly. John stares at him. 

“All of these stupid tests, all those useless ‘specialists’, and now you’re telling me that there is no cure?” 

“I’m sorry, but-“

“There has to be a different diagnosis. You got it wrong.” Sherlock tears up the page, again and again, until it’s too thick to tear apart 8 pieces at once.

John lets him. He knows that Sherlock has to get his anger out right now. The book was old, anyways, and he could easily replace it. 

Once Sherlock is calmer, they finally talk about it. 

“How has no one else figured it out until now?” 

“Well.. we all falsely assumed it was a heart issue, or well.. psychological, but given the ‘stupid tests’, your heart is fine.”

“For now.” Sherlock adds remorsefully. 

John hesitates, but there is no way that he could ever lie to Sherlock. “Yes.. for now. It’s not usually this severe, though. Most people have such mild symptoms of a bit of dizziness, that they rarely even get the diagnosis... while other cases are so severe that they are basically bedridden.” Then again, when did Sherlock Holmes ever do things by halves?

They let that sink in for a moment. 

“So, what are the treatment options?” Sherlock asks.

John clears his throat. “Well.. there are medical compression stockings-“

“Absolutely not.” 

John smiles. “I knew you’d say that. But getting the compression on your legs, which your body is incapable of doing itself, is a huge part in getting better.” 

Sherlock snorts. “‘Getting better.’”

“You know what I mean..” 

Sherlock sighs. “What else?”

“Medication.” 

Sherlock freezes. “Like what?”

John is a bit puzzled at his reaction. “Beta blockers.. oh, and some that cause hypertension-“

“No.”

“... why not?” John wonders.

“I’m not taking any pills. My brother would have a field day.”

John rolls his eyes. “Medical prescriptions are Not recreational drugs.”

Sherlock snorts. “My brother would fire you for saying that, had you been working for him.”

John raises an eyebrow at him.

“‘Nobody deceives like an addict’, isn’t that what he always likes to say?”

John starts to understand what he means. “Well I trust you enough to not replace actual medication with.. whatever kind of drug.” 

Sherlock looks away. “That makes one of us.”

John feels his blood run cold. “You don’t trust yourself, is that what you’re telling me here?” 

“The thought has crossed my mind.” Sherlock admits. 

Dear lord, how many danger nights have they missed? John wonders, feeling like he got punched in his stomach. 

“I don’t presume that any of  those drugs would have any desired effect on this.... thing?” 

“POTS.” John corrects him.

Sherlock blinks at him. “I- .. in the kitchen.” 

John doesn’t understand what he means for a moment, then starts laughing. “No, not ‘pots’, P.O.T.S.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Anyways. No, I wouldn’t recommend.. that sort of thing. POTS is a neurological disease; who knows what kind of damage recreational drugs could cause with that.”

Sherlock hums. “Not a word about this, to anyone. Especially not George. He would never let me work on cases again.”

John swallows down the name correction and just nods. Doctor-Patient-Confidentiality and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say this now: when I write the chapters (especially from personal experiences) I feel perfectly confident. And then I have to post them. And with every chapter, I’m afraid that someone is gonna comment how unrealistic it is. Your lovely comments make up for it though 💜


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I’m not doing well at all right now. If it doesn’t get better, I might seriously have to call an ambulance (which I HATE)
> 
> I thought I was getting better again, even managed a few days without hitting 170, and since yesterday I’m always gasping for air (despite asthma inhalers), can barely walk, in pain and I’m just utterly exhausted from nothing 😫

Now that they knew what was wrong with Sherlock, both men simultaneously did their own research on the syndrome.

(John bought Rosie a child book about human anatomy, which she keeps flipping through the childproof pages of in the background.) 

Sherlock had picked up on a few tricks on his own over the past weeks, like using a chair to wash his hair, sitting in a halfway filled bathtub to rinse and clean his body without needing to stand (after both a shower and his normal baths resulted in disaster); with a bit of practice he now figured out how to pick up objects from the floor with his toes after he drops them (since he’s usually bare foot in his flat, that was an easy skill to obtain). 

Taking his time when getting up, instead of just bolting up abruptly, was something that he didn’t have much patience for, and landed him in a heap on the floor quite a few times. 

He learned through other people’s storiesto only eat easily digestible food, in multiple small portions over the day. 

To his distaste, it’s a lot of women who talk about their long journey of getting their diagnosis. Most of them got it in their teens, and then it just magically disappeared once they were around the age of 25.

His watch gives a vibration; incoming call from Mycroft.

He didn’t know where he’d left his phone  _this_ time, so he just accepted it on his watch. 

“Hello brother dear.” Mycroft greets him with that smug voice of his.

“Mycroft.”

“I heard that John finally figured it out.” Of course his damned brother would hear about it, even without John writing anything in a file. He probably bugged his watch, that infuriating control freak.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad that there is finally an answer.”

Sherlock sighs. “Not exactly a favorable diagnosis.”

“Yes, I heard, no cure.  _[Pause]_ Sherlock, I want you to try out every availabletreatment option.” 

Sherlock snorts. “Forget it.”

“Sherlock. It cannot continue like this.” 

Sherlock disconnects the call. Under no circumstances would he wear silly stockings. He already had a girls disease; he didn’t need to add insult to injury by dressing like one.

Sherlock keeps reading through the web for most of the day. 

Doctors seems to be split in half; one side thinks that POTS is just ‘a bit uncomfortable’, while the other half says that POTS patients can be severely disabled and have a life expectancy of 5-10 years from the point of diagnosis. Sherlock figures that it’s like what John said; the one half refers to the patients with barely noticeable symptoms, while the other half refers to the severe cases.

Sure, POTS is supposedly Not considered a lethal disease. The complications that result from it, on the other hand, are very much dangerous. 

Sherlock doesn’t want to think of himself as a ‘severe’ case. Yes, his heart rate tended to stay at 130 to 140 or higher when upright, when it should only give a short spike in the first ten minutes upon standing up, and then resting at a constant heart rate of 120bpm. And he’s fainted on more than one occasion, lost most of his stamina and body weight, but he wasn’t literally ‘bedridden’. 

He just has to clench his teeth together and push through. 

People already call him a drama queen for less.


	22. Chapter 22

Running around London in order to try to find clues is obviously out of the question, so they meet up at New Scotland Yard.

The Yard isn’t much of a problem, since everything is on ground level, anyways.

Sadly, Donovan seemed even less pleased to have Sherlock around, and Anderson had fled the office as soon as they got inside; probably afraid that Sherlock was sick with something contagious, that idiot.

They’d been discussing the facts for half an hour now and John noticed how increasingly pale Sherlock seemed to have become over the past two minutes. 

“Sherlock, sit down on the chair.” There were plenty surrounding the table, John pointed to the one closest to Sherlock.

“Why.”

“Because I bloody want you to!”

“Well I _don’t_ want to!” 

“I’m a _DOCTOR_! Sit. The hell. Down. _NOW_.” John yells, completely ignoring the fact that there are two police officers with them in the room.

All his life, Sherlock had towered over anyone who dared to make stupid threats. He would hold himself up high to appear un-touchable. 

He will not lower himself beneath everyone else, just because he is told to sit down, while everyone else gets to keep standing.

“No.” Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.

John groans and rolls his eyes. His phone starts ringing, so he excuses himself and leaves the evidence room.

“Mycroft, what do you want?” He is more still annoyed at Sherlock than the elder Holmes. 

“Tetchy. Is this a bad time? My brother making your life hell again?” He sounds so smug that John wants to strangle him.

“Just get to the bloody point, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock won’t see doctor Schall anymore.”

“You’ve said that.”

“He needs treatment, John. But since he refuses to see a specialist again, you will get to do the honors.”

John frowns. “He doesn’t want to do either of the treatments, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighs. “This isn’t about what he _wants_ , this is about what he _needs_ ,  _ Doctor _ Watson.”

“I’m not gonna force him to do things!”

“Doctor Watso-“ John ends the call then and there.

When he walks back into the room, Sherlock is sitting in the chair he had previously fought against, giving John a small smile. 

He’d heard him talk on the phone, then. 

“Right. Can we please get back on topic, then?” Lestrade asks impatiently. “He’s killed two people, and I don’t want any more deaths.” 

“He’s smart, probably a doctor or a chemist - he knows what he’s doing. He also knows how to do this without leaving traces of DNA anywhere. Surprisingly, in a public hotel.”

“Well it was closed off after the first one, so he had kind of free roam with the second victim.” Greg adds. 

“Aren’t _you_ a chemist?” Donovan suddenly asks Sherlock.

John sucks in an exacerbated breath.

“Oh god, not this again. _ I didn’t do it! _ ” Sherlock growls at her. Both him and Donovan turn away from the other. 

John doesn’t bother adding that Sherlock isn’t even in physical condition to murder someone, let alone drag their body up flights of stairs.

“Guys, please.” Lestrade sighs. 

“Autopsy didn’t show anything, I take it?” John asks, trying to get them back on topic.

“Nada, zilch. I get that they were murdered, but we really need to know with what, so that we can pinpoint the suspect.”

“He’s not a relative, we know that much. Seems like he just picks people at random.” Sherlock states.

“How do you know he’s not a relative? He might be the brother of one, and in a relationship with the other!” Donovan quips in once again.

“Because one: why would he kill them both? Two: they are different ages, nationali-“ Sherlock suddenly swallows mid-sentence again. He continues, pretending like it didn’t happen. “-ties, and both are from different areas. Now, tell me how they were possibly in relation?” 

She shrugs. “Maybe they were friends?”

Sherlock doesn’t waste a second. “Again; why kill them if that were the case?” 

“Maybe they had a fight? How many murderers have we had that kill in the name of love?” John asks.

“No. There has to be an alternative motive.” He turns his attention back to Lestrade. “Was there anything on the piercing?” 

Greg shakes his head. 

“Come on! They were poisoned! How were they poisoned?! There has to be some sign, like a needle mark or- or leftover traces in the stomach-...” he trails off.

“Sherlock.. please don’t get worked up.” John whispers to him. 

Sherlock suddenly bolts up from the chair and out of the room, long coat adding for dramatic effect and all. 

“Sher- oh damn it. Damn it all.” John slumps into the now empty chair, elbows on the table surface as he puts his face in his hands. 

“Is he gonna puke again?” Donovan asks, adding insult to injury. John puts his hands down, clenching them into fists. 

“He never did, and you know it. Anyways, didn’t seem like that. Probably just got tired of... you know.” He gestures around the room with one hand. 

“The stupidity in the room?” Greg asks jokingly. 

“Yes, that.”

* * *

Sherlock tried desperately to dry off the small wet patch on the front of his pants, still in disbelief that his body had suddenly malfunctioned like this.

He‘d ran into the staff bathroom the second he felt the urine escape, so it was barely more than a few drops, but the mortification was still sinking in. 

Sure, he’s drinking a lot more than he used to, because one of the problems with POTS is hypovolemia, also known as low blood volume. He pretty much always has to get up at night at least once to void his bladder. But  _this_ ; this has never happened before.

He throws the damp pieces of toilet paper into the toilet and flushes. He leaves the stall and washes his hands, trying to gauge in the light if the small spot still showed. He could barely tell with his dark trousers. 

He decides that he’s had enough of today. He’ll leave the Yard without a word of goodbyes. Not that it was anything new. 

He exits the bathrooms and makes to leave when he hears someone call his name.

“Sherlock!” John. Of course. 

He lets John catch up, then they make their way out.

“Do you have any idea how demeaning it is to be the only one sitting?” Sherlock asks as they leave the building. John doesn’t need to know about that little lapse in control.

“Well, we could just all sit down next time, if that makes you feel any better.” 

Next time. 

Sherlock starts to wonder if he even wants to keep working with the Yard, since they don’t respect him anymore, anyways. 

And with his body slowly malfunctioning more and more, who knows how long he’ll even dare to step outside of his flat.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn’t have a standing heart rate of over 130 when I don’t even eat in the morning (and sometimes not at all before 3pm). But some days I simply hit 150 and 160 when I walk my dog in the morning, on an empty stomach, in cool weather (little lifehack: wear short pants and open shoes like sandals and flip flops so that your lower legs stay cooler, to help with blood vessel constriction).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still not doing very well. The near constant storms aren’t helping, either. Oh well.. I’m seeing a neurologist on the 13th and the new cardiologist on the 19th next month, so we’ll see.

“This is humiliating.” Sherlock states as he stands there with his naked legs, a man kneeling before him was taking his measurements. 

Mycroft had blackmailed him into this. If he didn’t at least attempt treatment and make an effort in getting better, he would tell Lestrade not to let him work on any cases for the foreseeable future. 

“Well.” John starts. “If it’ll make you better, I rather have you humiliated than poorly.” 

Sherlock glares at him.

“Remember to grab hold of the handle if you get dizzy.” John reminds him unhelpfully from across the room. Sherlock stares down at the sheet that holds his measurements. He’s had to cling to the damned handle when he had to stand up from the chair earlier, when the man was done with his feet. 

The most humiliating thing had been when the man had commented on how long and thin his legs are, after he’d undressed. Like that was helpful. He knew perfectly well that his body looked borderline anorexic at present, but there was nothing he could do about it since his body burns what little calories he manages to take in, from simply standing up. He did, however, like to think that he still had a considerable amount of muscle mass, but as always, people only see and comment on the things that are obvious to them.

“Alright, we’re done.” The man declares and leaves them in order to type things into a computer in the front room.

John brings Sherlock his trousers, socks and shoes from the bench. “Sit down and get dressed that way. No need to bend down.” 

“I know.” Sherlock snaps at him and pushes his right leg through the trouser leg. He mostly gets dressed while sitting or even laying down on his bed. He is pretty flexible, so he can easily bring up his feet to put socks on and tie shoelaces that way.

After getting down the 3 stairs, he accidentally stumbles into John as his balance momentarily leaves him. 

John easily catches him and helps him regain his balance, only letting go when Sherlock moves away without swaying. “Apologies.” Sherlock mutters. He’d probably be red in his face if he had the blood for it.

“It’s alright. You wanna go grab lunch while we’re in the city?” John asks as they leave the medical supply store. 

“No thanks, I’m.. I’m having a liquid day. But go ahead if you want anything.”

“Maybe they have some soups?” John offers.

Sherlock’s phone suddenly rings. They stop on the pavement as he takes it out. 

“We have another one.” John hears Lestrade’s voice say through the speaker.

-

“I’m starting to get a sense of deja vu.” John mutters as they enter the hotel for the third time in three weeks. 

“Ah Sherlock, John. I thought you weren’t coming.” Greg greets them. It had taken them almost half an hour to get here.

“We were on the other side of town.” Sherlock explains, his tone not welcoming further questions.

“Right. Anyways.. She’s on the third floor this time. We’re done with the elevators so come right up.” Greg takes them over to the two elevators, all three men crammed into one, with barely enough space for them to breathe they ride up.

The elevator takes them to the other end of the hallway, so they have to walk across it. “We found her ID; Cathrine Hart, she’s just turned 19 two weeks ago.” Lestrade explains while they approach the victim.

“They’re getting younger.” John notes. 

Right as they get there, Sherlock is staring at something that has caught his eye. “Apple Watch.” 

“Hm?” 

Sherlock points to her left wrist. 

John bends down for him, then hesitates and turns to Greg. “May I?”

“Yeah. Just use a glove.” Greg says, handing John a thin rubber glove. 

After pulling it on with his doctor precision, he taps repeatedly on the touch screen. “Looks like the battery is dead.”

Sherlock ‘hmm’s in annoyance. “Find out what’s on her phone. Might have a medical ID on there with current diseases and medication. And look through her Health app. Might find something useful.” He already turns to leave.

“Wait! Sherlock! Is that all you’re gonna tell us??” Greg yells after him. John already gets up and runs after him. 

“You okay?” He whispers when he he reaches him. 

Sherlock looks down at his watch. The numbers 145 stare him in the face. He quickly lowers his arm so that John doesn’t see.

“125, I’m fine.” He lies. 

“Okay.” 

-

Mrs Hudson hums a melody as she climbs the stairs up to 221B with the tea tray in her hands. She hadn’t heard Sherlock moving all morning, so she wanted to gently wake him up to a nice cup of tea. 

She nearly dropped the tray when she saw him sprawled out on the floor. “Oh!” She quickly places it down on the coffee table and then kneels down beside him. 

“Sherlock!” She taps him on his cheek, already thinking about calling John on what to do, when he starts to shift and groans. 

“Wh’ issit Hudders?” Comes the slurred mumble. 

“Oh goodness. I thought you were unconscious!”

Sherlock shifts into a half sitting position, holding himself up with his arms, swaying slightly. “No, must’ve fallen asleep. Stupid...” He scolds himself. He pushes himself up, and once he manages to get on his feet, has to cling to the edge of the kitchen table when everything starts spinning. 

“I have to figure-“ His strength momentarily lapses but he manages to keep standing. “Figure out.. the connection..” 

“Were you up all night? John said you need a lot of sleep, with that.. disease of yours. What was it again? Kettle? Pans?” They had decided to let her know, simply because in case of emergencies she’d be able to tell an EMT. John had made him add his diagnosis to his digital medical ID, which could be viewed on his watch by simply holding the button for a few seconds, but not every paramedic or doctor knows about this.

“Pots.” Sherlock corrects her. He feels slightly pissed off at having an illness with the name of basic kitchenware. 

“Yes, right.” 

When he doesn’t move except for his eyes, probably looking through things in his mind palace, Martha Hudson dares to tap him on the shoulder.

“Off to bed, young man. You need some sleep, the case can wait.”

“Three people have died already. I have to figure out who, why and how, preferably yesterday.” 

“Bed.” She commands in that stern motherly voice. 

Sherlock sighs but trudges off to his bedroom. 

“And don’t forget your tea!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect to have a bit of a break in updates after the case is solved, since I need new information before I add the drastic, dramatic part *evil grin*


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have personally never gotten beta blockers before, sooo I just let my mind go wild and this is the result. (There IS a point to it! Everything here happens for a reason *evil grin*)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta have some good old silliness :)  
> (SPOILER: I’ve discovered by accident that there is a “Sherlock has tentacles” story tag, and I really don’t want to know why that exists, but I got tempted for a second to add it xD)

  
“Take them.” 

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“You can’t force me!”

“I can and I will!”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“You have another few days until your stockings will be done being made. John has told me about the beta blockers and I want you to give it a try.” 

“I’m not taking anything that your oh-so-great doctor prescribes.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“My answer is still no.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you will take your medication and you will get better, or so help me-“

Sherlock snatches the little package from Mycroft’ hand and rips it open. Almost dropping the small pill when he pushes it out from the blister package, he quickly downs it with a few gulps of his coffee, all the while glaring pointedly at his brother.

“Should you be drinking coffee?” Mycroft asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Some people benefit from the raise in blood pressure, but there is no scientific proof. As you can see, I’m willing to try anything.” He throws his brother a venomous glare as he sips from his coffee again. 

* * *

“John, I think you should come over. I’m tempted to call EMT’s, but you know what my brother is like.”

John sighs on the other end of the phone line.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

* * *

“How long exactly has he been like this?” John asks as they both watch a positively manic Sherlock dance about the living room and apparently trying to climb walls.

“About twenty minutes after he took the beta blocker that doctor Schall prescribed him. He couldn’t sit still or focus on what we were talking about, then suddenly he leaped up, slammed into the kitchen table and yelled that he is an octopus.” 

John blinks, rapidly alternating between looking at Sherlock and Mycroft. 

“I may only have four arms, but if I can stick to walls, that means I’m an octopus!” Sherlock declares and proceeds in jumping against the wall from where he had climbed over John’s armchair.

Both men wince when they hear the slam, then the thud of Sherlock crashing on the floor.

He seems immobilized as he’s laying on his back, only rolling his head around and moving his arms up into his chest and back down in uncoordinated slumps.

John finally walks over to him and watches Sherlock doing waving motions with his halfway limp hand, probably seeing something that isn’t real. 

He takes his other hand to check his pulse (the watch was charging). It wasn’t irregular or significantly strong or thready.

“Hey mate.” John greets him simply. 

“‘M an octopussss..” Sherlock has a derpy smile and his eyes try and fail to stay focused on John.

“Yes, I know, mate. I think you’ll want to get into bed for a bit. Octopi are nocturnal.” John says, not sure if that is even remotely true but hoping to get Sherlock to sleep this off.

When John tries to get Sherlock to stand, the detective bursts out laughing like a maniac for some reason. 

“Wait, let me help.” Mycroft quickly joins the good doctor and helps him carry his little brother into his bedroom, Sherlock laughing and making siren-like noises on the way there.

Once on the bed, Sherlock tries to escape by uncoordinatedly flailing his arms and legs, nearly sending him to the floor if John didn’t hold him down.

“God, this is worse than when Irene Adler drugged him.” John mutters, suddenly glad that this hadn’t happened when Greg had his fun recording a loopy Sherlock. 

“He doesn’t take any other meds that could have lead to this?” John asks Mycroft. He remembers Sherlock telling him how he wouldn’t take any pills, but this was a very intriguing scenario. 

“No, nothing. He won’t even take simple painkillers. In fact, he hasn’t touched anything since the morphine at the hospital.”

John pauses to think, still holding down the squirmy Sherlock. He quickly gets pulled back to reality when he feels a hand grab his wrist, and is shocked to see Sherlock’s arm twisting backwards, all the way up to where John’s hand is holding him down on the middle of his back. “What the-“

“Do not be alarmed, Doctor Watson. It’s just one of his little ‘party tricks’. Quite handy when he needs to escape and his hands are tied together.” Mycroft explains.

“EDS?” John asks.

“Hypermobility. Common in autistics, as I hear.” 

John stares at him in disbelief, then nods. 

Sherlock is now limp under John’s hand, and he steps back a little. They can hear faint snores and both silently sigh in relief.

They leave him to rest and discuss things in the kitchen.

“What exactly did she give him?” John whispers. 

Mycroft hands him the ripped package. 

“Hmm.. just regular beta blockers.” John reads through the information on the package and then takes out the insert to read. “Hallucinations are listed in the very, very rare cases. He would, wouldn’t he?”John asks, stuffing the insert back into the package. “You can leave those here, I’ll throw them away at the surgery tomorrow.” 

Two hours later, when Mycroft had left his brother in the capable hands of John, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom. He has to hold on to the doorway and looks like was run over by a bus. 

“Sherlock?” John approaches him when he realizes that Sherlock is up. 

“My tentacles are gone.” Sherlock mutters in disappointment as he looks down at his hands. 

John doesn’t comment on it. 

“Anyways, I need a shower.” He sniffs and enters the door next to him. Only then did John notice the rather large wet patch on Sherlock’s trousers. 

John lets him be in peace and goes to contact Mary, that he wouldn’t come home tonight; but if he heard a crash from the bathroom he’d come right in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a meme where a comedy book writer talks about how he is an octopus with 4 arms chopped off, but that he’d know that he’s an octopus if he can stick to walls; proceeds to jump at a wall, falls down, and on the floor he says “I’m not an octopus”. I sadly don’t know who that is, I just saw it on my instagram feed and it inspired this xD (Also some beta blockers actually have reported cases of hallucinations where they saw dead people in their bedrooms. I was shocked to find that out.   
> Google must think that I’m a psychopath by now, with the odd things that I’ve looked up for these fanfics haha)
> 
> This is the ‘party trick’ that I can do, which is referred to in this chapter:
> 
> https://youtu.be/Dpxb9bdyvPg


	25. Chapter 25

The bathtub isn’t even filled completely when John hears the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting, over the loud water stream. 

Poor Sherlock.

He sighs and goes to prepare another salt-water-mix. Vomiting would not help him stay as hydrated as he needs to be.

* * *

An hour later they’re sitting in the living room in silence, after Sherlock complained of the TV being too bright.

“You know, you don’t have to be embarrassed.” John points out when Sherlock refuses to look at him. 

“I’m not embarrassed. Why would I be? I was drugged.” Sherlock argues.

John clears his throat. “I meant the um.. wet spot. To put it kindly.” 

Sherlock glares at him through the corner of his eyes. “I’m aware. Autonomic dysfunction.” 

Practically everything was. Breathing, heart beating, digestion, sweating.. it’s all things nobody would normally spend a thought on. It all works automatically in the background.

Unless it doesn’t. His transport is out of control. Both his own and his brain’s control. His immune system was attacking the vegetative nervous system, and there was nothing he or anyone could do about it. 

He briefly wonders when lapses in control had become the norm for him. That he isn’t even surprised anymore; just annoyed when they happen.

“You should probably sit with your legs up, you know.” John points out.

Sherlock throws him a have-you-lost-it glare.

“If you’re gonna be sitting for longer, I mean. Blood pooling, remember?” 

“Forget it.” Sherlock snaps, crosses his legs and looks the other way.

John sighs and shifts on his chair. “Look, Sherlock. It’s really not a big deal. And it would probably help you feel better if you’re gonna be sitting for hours on end.” John demonstrates by putting both feet up on the edge of the seat, knees against his chest.

Sherlock looks at him and sees John in a position that he had been taught Not to sit in as a child. Under absolutely no circumstances. Or there would be punishments. 

Without another word, Sherlock abruptly stands up and walks towards his bedroom. He has to take a pit stop in the kitchen, holding onto the crammed full table for a moment and lets the darkness wash over him, waiting for it to pass. 

If John had said anything, Sherlock hadn’t heard him, and just made his way into his bedroom, shutting the door with more force than is necessary. 

John has a faint suspicion, especially after Mycroft reminded him of the fact that his friend is on the autism spectrum. 

He takes a chance and knocks on his bedroom door. “Sherlock?”

“Go away!” The yell comes almost immediately. 

“Should I send Mrs Hudson to check on you?” 

“No! Just go!” 

John sighs. He grabs the ripped package of beta blockers, pulls on his coat and leaves without another word. 

He does, however, send Mycroft a message to keep an eye on Sherlock. 

* * *

After the humiliating day yesterday, today couldn’t get much worse, could it?

Apparently it could. 

From the moment he leaves his bed, his lower legs just hurt. There is no way of identifying if it’s the muscles or the bones; his nerves are just on fire, it seems. 

He manages the few steps from his bed, to the door that leads from his bedroom into the bathroom. Then his vision is engulfed by darkness and the world spins. He has to blindly hold onto the sink, forcing himself to take deep breaths as he rides it out. 

Well. That hasn’t happened in a while. He’d thought that he finally got over this. But it would seem that it has come back with a vengeance.

After taking care of business, he stumbles (really stumbles, like a drunk) into the kitchen. He just needed a coffee. That was the plan. That was the routine. 

He couldn’t really eat in the mornings, so he’d have to try later in the day.

Not eating all day wasn’t an option, since he’d just continue to burn whatever calories and fat that he has. John would probably murder him if he found out that Sherlock deliberately didn’t eat for x days because of a case.

But eating makes everything just so much worse. The fatigue, the nausea, and pretty much every symptom he gets from standing up.

He is caught between a rock and a hard place. 

The coffee machine’s sounds grate on his nerves, and he realizes that he has another headache. Lovely.

His watch vibrates with a message. Lestrade has sent pictures. 

He sighs, starting the search for his phone. 

He ends up having to ping it with his watch, when after ten minutes of looking everywhere he still couldn’t find it. 

He ends up finding it in his coat pocket.

Sherlock flinches when the bright screen burns through his eyes and stabs into his skull like scalpels. 

After painstakingly reducing the white point, when the completely dimmed brightness was still painfully blinding him, he finally opens the messages and looks at the pictures.

“Found this on the last victims phone.” Said the message. Below it were 3 screenshots.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

_ Well hello, what do we have here? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s play a little game.  
> Let’s see who of you can figure out who is behind the murders. I’ll give you two hints:
> 
> 1\. there are two culprits working together,  
> 2\. their names have been mentioned in multiple chapters.  
> (This work completely disregards that Magnussen is still alive after Sherlock gets shot. Only characters that are mentioned in the chapters count!)
> 
> You have One Week to form your deductions :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The veins in our legs become tear-drop shaped over time, thanks to the blood pooling.

Since John was still helping out on the case, Sherlock had ordered him to do sonograms on all of the victims’ calves. When asked why Sherlock wasn’t coming with him, he said “I have something to do. And you’re the doctor; you’re more suited than me.” 

After his morning shift, John went to the morgue and asked Molly for the victims.

Soon the sonograms were made, and John found a very interesting deformation of the veins. 

He knows what this is. What they are part of. He’d only just read about it in the new medical books, which had suspiciously stood on his doorstep the day after he finally got Sherlock diagnosed. 

A thought made John look up, take out his phone and make a call. He only gets through to Donovan. Oh well, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Sally, Sherlock said that the suspect is probably a chemist or a doctor.”

“Yes?”

“What if he was both?” 

* * *

Doctor Schall was in her own lab, mixing a few liquids in vials and holding them up against the light.

“The murder weapon, I presume?”

She startled, almost dropping the glasses. She puts them down in the test tube rack, then turns around to Sherlock. He’s just standing there with his arms behind his back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you. Shame that you didn’t get to kill me. Must be my luck that I reacted to the pills. Or was it maybe something that  you put in wrongly?” 

She remains silent, keeps up her facade of not knowing what he’s talking about. 

Sherlock is pacing the room. “I knew you were a rubbish doctor.” He pauses, turning to her. “Or maybe it’s quite the opposite.” The resumes pacing. “Tell me, how soon did you know what was wrong with me, but kept me in the dark in favor of trying to perfect your own poison?” He stares at her now. “People have died. They were your own patients, weren’t they?” 

She takes a deep breath. “We have found a genetic connection in POTS patients. It’s disabling too many people. We have to eliminate everyone that has it, stop it from spreading further.”

Sherlock snorts. “Did you ever take into consideration that maybe I will never so much as have a relationship?” 

She shrugs. “Anything could happen. Nothing is for certain.” She pauses. “I just didn’t want people to suffer.”

“So you killed them.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“If your child had something he would never get better from, would you want it to continue to suffer until its dying days?” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “He.”

“.. sorry?”

“You said he.” Sherlock steps closer to her.

She swallows, realizing her mistake.

“Conclusion, you have a fatally ill son.” 

A tear escaped her eyes. She sniffs and looks down to the floor. “Child Alzheimer’s. He’s just ten years old and he keeps forgetting who I am. He isn’t responding to the medication. He’s in a care home, but they don’t think he’ll make it to twelve years old.” 

“So why not try to find a cure for his disease, instead of killing innocent people?”

She looks him in the eyes.

“Aaah, I see. Taking out your pain of imminent loss.” 

“I specialize in genetically inherited diseases and neurologic illnesses. Partly work in labs to search for medications and, hopefully, cures. I’m sure you’ve heard about the new cure for HIV?”

“Why kill these people specifically?” Sherlock asks, getting back on his original topic. 

“They all had family wishes. Were trying to get pregnant, told me about it in appointments.”

Sherlock tilts his head.

“You were just.. an experiment. I was sure that with your drug history it would be a cakewalk, but didn’t account for...” She trails off.

“Account for what?” Sherlock presses.

“Well, I made a mistake. I had optimized it for.. neurotypicals.” 

Sherlock slowly straightens up. Of course Mycroft would put that into the medical history he gave her. 

“Apparently neuro-atypicals react differently to it. I tested it again after the failed attempt. Same reaction. Hallucinations, one even became psychotic and had to be sedated for two days. While the neurotypicals died peacefully after the third dose.” 

Sherlock stays silent. Of course, Mycroft must have reported it back to her how he reacted to whatever was put into the pills. Sherlock tries not to think about those poor other autistic POTS patients, that she used as lab rats. Then he suddenly comments “well, this has been a  _ very _ interesting case. Thank you for that. I’ll look forward for the court case.” 

Before she can ask what he means, Lestrade and his team suddenly barge in. 

“What-“ She yelps when Gregson slaps the handcuffs on her.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Greg says, turning off the small recording device and puts it into his pocket.

“How did- what?” Schall asks Sherlock.

“Walkie Talkie function.” He explains, his voice echoing from Greg’s watch speakers as Sherlock lets go from the digital button on the watch behind his back, and holds up his watch to show her. He turns it off. “Everything we said, my watch had sent it over to his watch, while they all waited behind this door. It’s simple planning, with the convenience that his wife owns an Apple Watch 3 that we could borrow.” Sherlock continues, pointing to the door they all came out of. 

“Bested by a simple watch..” Schall mutters and shakes her head. Gregson gives her a shove and they walk out to the police cars.

As soon as they are out, Sherlock leans against the wall with his back, presses a hand to his chest and closes his eyes with a sigh.

“You alright?” Greg asks, all joy quickly replaced with worry. 

Sherlock nods, opens his eyes and removes his hand. “There’s another storm coming. Where’s John?”

“Should be on his way here. What storm?” 

“You’ll see in a few hours.” He checks his watch and sighs. 

“Just sit down if you need to. John will probably want to check you over, anyways.” Greg tells him. “Just please be out when forensics take pictures and samples from here.” 

“Sherlock!” John yells as he runs into the lab. “Oh thank god! You bloody git, why didn’t you tell me anything?” 

Greg chuckles. 

“I needed you to stay out of this. You probably would have strangled her the next chance you had, if you had known.” Sherlock explains, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” John asks, seeing his eyes fluttering. Sherlock seems not to have heard him. “Greg, help me get him on the floor.” 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just begin by saying how sorry I am for letting you guys down and never updating now.   
> To be blunt, I’m doing absolutely terrible. Hopefully I’ll get answers soon..

The storm had, as Sherlock predicted, hit the centre of London at around 10pm, so John stayed with him to help, just in case Sherlock needed something at night or in the morning.

The next morning Sherlock stays put on the sofa with a blanket, complaining about just not getting warm anymore.

Since John was staying at 221B and Mary has to go to work after her maternity leave ended, he now gets to babysit little Rosie. 

John took that opportunity to tell Sherlock how Rosie was the one to find the diagnosis. Sherlock quietly praised her on how she is just like her father, when he thought that John couldn’t hear him while he prepared tea to help warm up his friend. 

Greg then came to visit Sherlock at his flat to talk about the case. Rosie was asleep next to the freezing detective on the small space of the sofa.

“So.. the heart rate history of the victim was similar to yours?” Greg starts.

“Mmm. Hers weren’t as bad.” 

“You mean that when I heard John say something about 170 and stuff like that, that was your heart rate?”

“Yep.” 

“Actual heart rate?” Greg presses, leaning forward a little.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Blimey.. but you weren’t high?”

Sherlock scowls at him.

“Just making sure.” Greg says, holding up his hands in defense. John comes back, carrying the steaming cup of tea.

“Have you found anything in her lab?” Sherlock asks, trying to change the subject as he accepts the tea that John holds out to him.

“Nothing that our teams couldn’t identify. As far as we know, her lab is clean.”

“Hm. Must have them somewhere else.”

“So, if Schall was responsible for the poison and is Not our male murder suspect, what role did he have?” John suddenly asks.

“He brought the copses into the hotel, obviously.” Sherlock explains.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock groans. “Didn’t you see her? Scoliosis in her back, one repeatedly dislocating knee cap and carpal tunnel syndrome in her right hand.  _ How _ would she be able to lift a dead body?” 

“But you still thought that it was all him. That he was smart, and all that.” John says with a smirk.

“Yes. Digestion slows me down, I’ve always told you.” Sherlock reminds him, sipping his tea.  _ There’s always something. _

“Any idea on who he might be?” Greg asks.

“I have a few theories but nothing is for certain right now. We’re looking for someone with a motive of revenge. He doesn’t take pleasure in what he’s doing, as it was evident before you let him escape after the first victim.” 

Greg rolls his eyes and takes his leave, claiming to have a hearing with Schall in half an hour. 

“So.. the beta blockers..” John trailed off.

“Intended to kill me.” Sherlock sips his tea and places it down on the coffee table.

“Wish I hadn’t thrown them away.. we might have found the poison that way. Have you heard from Mycroft?” 

“No. He’s probably guilt tripping himself over a slice of cake right now.” Sherlock says with a sudden annoyance that makes John look up. 

“Sherlock, he only wanted to help you.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. But he was too blind to see her actual intent.” Sherlock argues, pulling the blanket tighter around himself as another round of goosebumps shivers over his body.

“You didn’t see it, either.” John points out.

“In the case that I need to remind you: I am ill. And I didn’t trust her at any point; my intuition is never wrong.” Sherlock counters and picks up his tea again, wishing his cold hands would just finally absorb the heat. “Mycroft was right about one thing, though.”

“Oh? And what is that?” 

“She knew exactly what she was doing.” Sherlock says and drinks the last of his tea.

Just then little Rosie wakes up from her nap. “Well hello there, Miss Watson.” He gently guides her to sit on his lap. 

John smiles as he watches Sherlock interact with his goddaughter. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for vanishing again guys. Lots of doctors appointments, tests, and just every day life is making me utterly exhausted. I’m getting my test results (from the cardiologist) tomorrow and I’m scared, so have a chapter (finally)..

Sherlock stays awake the entire night, his beloved violin on his lap, fingers plucking softly at the strings without any real pattern.

It was so obvious. So clear to see. 

But still so far out of his reach.

He  knew something. He knew who the male murder assistant was. He just couldn’t access the information.

_ THINK _ .

* * *

John is rudely woken up the next morning. Not by Rosie, but by Sherlock. 

“John! John wake up!” 

John groans and turns to his other side. His bedroom upstairs was still the same, so he and Rosie slept up there last night. 

“John! For gods sakes, get up already!” Sherlock yells at him and John snaps his eyes open when Sherlock pushes against his back and shoulder. “Sherlock!” He exclaims and rolls over, pushing himself to sit up in order to properly glare at him.“What gives?! It’s..” he glances at his old alarm clock. “Five in the bloody morning!” 

“Yes, and we are 3 weeks late!” Sherlock says and turns to leave John’s old bedroom. 

“Wha-.. 3 weeks late for what?”

“We have a murderer to catch.” Sherlock grins. Then he blinks. “Well, not really murderer. But he definitely helped plan at least one of the attempted murders.” 

Sherlock then runs down the stairs, leaving John puzzled on his bed. “Excuse me, ‘attempted murders’? They are dead! You’re not making any sense!  _ Sherlock! _ _”_

* * *

Sherlock was already getting dressed when John gets down, carrying a half asleep Rosie on his shoulder. “Where the hell are you going?” 

“ We are going to visit your ex colleague.” Sherlock explains, throwing John his coat. 

John splutters, gesturing to Rosie. 

“Bring her to Mrs Hudson. Now get dressed.” 

“She’s probably still asleep!” John whispers.

“No, she’s been awake since 4, watching reruns of some stupid fake reality show.” 

In the end John relents, brings Rosie down to Mrs Hudson and calls Greg awake, telling him the address. 

John is surprised when Sherlock walks, instead of calling a cab. 

“Why didn’t you call a cab? You woke me up before the bloody sun even rises and now we’re just walking through half of London?” 

“It’s Tuesday - I think - so there will be many people taking cabs to arrive at various work shifts. Not to mention the traffic.” Sherlock says it as though the mere thought pains him. “It’s better if we just walk to his house.” 

John debated wether or not to ask the next question. “Can you even handle the walk? We’ll be walking for a good half an hour.” 

Sherlock glares at him. Then he lifts up his wrist and shows John his heart rate. “122, I’m perfectly fine.” 

John doesn’t question him further. 

“So, Foster. I didn’t see that one coming.” John comments as they walk.

“Obvious. He hated my guts from the very beginning, and when he lost his job because of me, he sought revenge.”

“And Schall was kind enough to provide a way.”

“Exactly.”

“Only it went wrong.”

“Yes. And we’re putting him in custody before he gets a chance to try again.”

John throws him a look, but Sherlock stays focused on the road ahead of them.

The walk goes by without any problems, and they arrive at the house at a few minutes before six. 

“Lestrade should be here in... 8 minutes and approximately 23 seconds.” Sherlock says, glancing at his watch.

“Do you want to interrogate him?” John asks.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, suddenly frowning deeply and doing something on his watch. 

“Sherlock? What is it?”

Sherlock shows him the small display. 

171.. 173.. 175bpm right now

152bpm two minutes ago

“Shit. Sit down.” John commands. 

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock stubbornly says.

“For gods sakes, no you are not. Sit down you stubborn git.” 

“No, look. It’s going down.” Sherlock says, mesmerized by the almost constantly changing numbers.

145.. 138.. 130.. 126.. 120.. 116.. 108..... 

John frowns. 

“Look! Maybe I’m getting better after all!” Sherlock exclaims it with so much joy that John feels sorry for him. 

Then the numbers rise up again, in nearly double the speed.

119.. 124.. 138.. 144.. 157.. 162.. 169-

Sherlock crashes down with his behind on the pavement without warning. 

When John gets to see the watch again, it’s at 178. He crouches down next to him.

Sherlock groans and tries to sit in a more comfortable position. 

“Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?” 

“I will never.. understand this.. bloody disease.” Sherlock complains breathlessly from the insane racing of his heart, wincing between words. 

“Yeah, you and about a million doctors.” John jokes, but Sherlock doesn’t so much as smile. “Seriously, did you hurt yourself?” 

“I think nothing more than a couple bruises.” Sherlock tells him, then attempts to push himself back up on his feet.

“No! Stay down. Your heart rate is still over 140. Please just wait until Lestrade gets here, and maybe he can take us home later.” 

Sherlock huffs.

“What the  _ fuck _ is he doing here?” They both turn their heads to see Foster coming out of his house. “Bastard! First you take away my job, ruin any chances of me being hired anywhere else, and now you’re stalking me in my bloody house?!” He snaps as he approaches them. 

“Good. At least you won’t get a chance to ruin other people’s lives!” Sherlock yells, probably waking the neighborhood. 

John wants to murder Sherlock, himself. How does the bloody genius never see when he’s about to be in danger?

Of course Foster charges at Sherlock, who is still helplessly on the cold pavement. John quickly stands before Sherlock, pulls out his gun and points it to Foster. “One more step and I’ll shoot.” 

Foster steps back with his hands up. “You wouldn’t shoot a colleague, would you? Come on, John, we went through medical school together!” His voice is desperate and almost whiney.

“I can and I will. Army doctor, remember that part? I killed people. And if you so much as try to run off or get to Sherlock, I swear to God I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you.” 

Sherlock is trying not to make it obvious that he is very pleased. He notices the flashing lights approaching from the distance, glad to be wrong for once and that Lestrade is here sooner than he calculated. 

John seems to have noticed as well, eyes only flicking to the side for a millisecond before staying focused on Foster again. “When the police gets here, you’ll cooperate. Escaping is futile; we will find you again and again.” 

Sherlock smirks.

The police car pulls up right next to them and Greg wastes no time in getting out. “Oh hell.” He comments when he sees Sherlock on the ground and John pointing a gun at Foster. 

“If you would, Inspector. I believe John’s arms are getting tired.” Sherlock comments from where he’s still sitting on the ground. 

“I’ll want answers.” Greg tells him pointedly, but proceeds in getting over to Foster, moving the man’s arms behind his back and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. “Seamus Foster, you are hereby under arrest for planning attempted murder and assisting in murder cases. Anything you say now will be held against you in court.” He easily takes him to his police car and gets him into the back. He slams the door and turns to the two insane people, who called him awake for an arrest before the sun was up.

“Alright you two. What did he do and do I need to call an ambulance?” He asks, his eyes mostly staring at Sherlock.

John answers for him. “He didn’t get to do anything, thank god.” 

“So why’s he sitting on the pavement?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. “You know exactly why.” 

“We walked here.” John adds.

Greg blinks at both of them. “Sorry what? The last time I saw you, you bloody collapsed after interrogating Schall for a few minutes. How in the world-.. have you lost your m- actually never mind, don’t answer that.”

“Give us a ride?” John asks.

Greg once again keeps his eyes on Sherlock, only giving John a short glance. “Will he actually ride in a police car, then?” 

“For gods sake.. I’m right here!” Sherlock snaps and pushes himself up to his feet, and glares when John and Greg look ready to catch him when he gets dizzy.

“Well. I’m definitely not letting you sit with Foster. You’re coming up front with me.” Greg comments, walks over to the car and opens the passenger door for him. “After you.” He says jokingly, but Sherlock only rolls his eyes and gets in. 

John gets in beside Foster on the backseats, feeling incredibly awkward. 

“Can you please stop making people want to kill you? If I collect any more of your death threats, it won’t look very good at the Yard.” Greg complains. 

“Wasn’t my fault. He’s a shit excuse for a doctor.” Sherlock curses and crosses his arms over his chest.

Greg and John both stare at him. Sherlock glares at them. Foster, thankfully, doesn’t react.

John clears his throat awkwardly. “And this is why you’re not supposed to stay awake all night.” 

Sherlock only turns away to glare outside through his car window. 

They stop at New Scotland Yard first. Greg doesn’t want to take any chances, so he brings Foster into a cell first thing.

John and Sherlock stay in the car. “So, do you often take your gun with you when you’re babysitting?” Sherlock suddenly asks, still looking outside.

John snorts. “Be glad that I had it with me. If I had to fight him, I’d be in custody with him right now.” 

“No. You’d be in custody, and Foster would be on a slab, being examined by Molly.” 

John giggles. “You really are bloody insane, though. I hope you know that.”

“Mmh. I may have heard thatone or two times before.” 

Before John gets to reply, Sherlock receives a text. “Oh god, what does my brother want now.” He complains, making no move to actually take out his phone or look at his watch.

“Why don’t you just read it?” John asks.

“It’s probably just a ‘so sorry for almost getting you killed by someone that I hired’ text.” 

John rolls his eyes; not that Sherlock can actually see it. “Sherlock. Open the bloody text.”

Sherlock sighs but taps on the watch. “Well, never mind. The stockings are done. How wonderful.” Sherlock says sarcastically. 

“Tell Greg to take us there, then. You’ve done a lot of walking already, but it’s still early in the morning.” Much like taking the measurements, putting on the stockings should happen before the blood pooling has a chance to widen the blood vessels and or water to collect in the legs, depending on the illness.

Greg opens the door to the drivers seat again. “Alright ladies, let’s get you home.” 

“Actually, we have somewhere to be.” Sherlock says.

“Oh?”

Sherlock then gives him the address of a street further down from the shop. John shakes his head from the back. Impossible git.

* * *

Greg was kind enough not to ask what they were doing there. He was so used to Sherlock’s weird antics, but he did warn him that if he’s going after another person that wants him dead, he will send Anderson instead.

They enter the shop and Sherlock gets ushered right back into the room where the man had taken his measurements. 

It had been around ten hours since he last laid down, and his neck and shoulder muscles were letting him know their displeasure as he took off his shoes, socks and trousers. 

John silently stares in surprise at the reddish-blue feet, but keeps his mouth shut.

The worker isn’t as considerate. “Dang, mate.” He comments. “What have you been up to? It’s just past 7.30am.” He asks while Sherlock climbs back up on the small stage to sit back down on the chair.

“I had some work to do.” Sherlock states. “Can we get on with it, then?” He was tired, his legs and behind hurt, his hearing was like under water and he was done with acting nice. Not that he made an effort before. 

The guy nods and opens the package, checking the labels on the inside of each stocking. Sherlock’s legs don’t have the same measurements when it comes to the thickness, so they had to be fitted accordingly. 

The man (which name Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember, because it’s irrelevant information) starts pulling the left one over his foot, explaining how to put them on step by step, but Sherlock is too busy cringing at the horrid feeling of the material on his skin to listen. 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no proof that stockings actually help with POTS. Some people have an improvement, others - like me - get nothing out of it. Since the auto antibodies attack different parts of the body/nervous system, I understand why. My guess is that people with orthostatic hypotension probably profit from it a lot more than people with POTS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the wait. I'm getting one flare worse than the last and the medication I got isn't helping me, either. They are just simple sodium tablets, and by logic they should raise my blood pressure, yet my body always does the exact opposite and after I had a blood pressure of 87/61, felt like I was freezing to death despite pullovers, blankets, heat blanket and service dog, and like I was going to pass out even though I was laying in bed, I gave up on them too.  
> On a more positive note: I got a (used, but basically everything got replaced by Apple so it's like brand new) 13.3" 2017 MacBook Pro yesterday, which I am uploading this chapter from!  
> Also over time I was getting more and more ideas, so I'm kind of glad about not updating in a while, if that makes sense.

Two days later, Sherlock demands his brother to have medical stockings renamed to “ugly useless torture device”.

Mycroft tells him to stop being overly dramatic, so Sherlock burns the stockings in the fireplace.

John later demands why Sherlock isn’t wearing them.

“They didn’t work. At. All. Not to mention how they irritate my skin.” Sherlock explains with just as much annoyance and lifts a pant leg, sitting on the sofa with one leg up, to show the red patches of skin.

John runs a hand through his hair. “They really didn’t work?”

Sherlock shakes his head and rolls his eyes. All they did was make him uncomfortable. Well, more than he already is. His legs always felt ice cold because they probably ruined blood circulation, they always felt like helium filled balloons when he lifts them to walk, and the fabric was so irritating that he couldn’t stand it anymore. “They didn’t lower my heart rate at all.”

John hums. “Where are they now? Maybe they weren’t tight enough.” John refrains from adding ‘because you might have lost weight since the measure’.

Sherlock points to the burning fireplace.

John gives Sherlock a raised eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Then he remembers why he came over in the first place. “The hearing is in a few days and you still haven’t told any of us why you said ‘attempted murders’.”

Sherlock sighs. “They are attempted because Schall had not yet perfected her poison. The victims were all test subjects. Could have not worked. There were probably more people but they had gotten an earlier, not deadly enough poison and survived.”

“Like with you.” John points out.

Sherlock crosses his arms. “Are you calling me a _victim_?”

“In this case, yes. And worse: since we still don’t know how exactly they died, it’s possible that you’ll have to testify.”

Now Sherlock lost his attitude. He had never thought of that.

There wasn’t enough proof.

Even if Sherlock is to testify, would that even be enough?

Schall and Foster might run free, get another chance at killing Sherlock and so many other people. Why can’t he figure it out?!

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” John snaps him out of his thoughts.

Sherlock clenches his eyes shut. “WHY can’t I find out the poison. _Why?!_ ”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up..” John attempts to console. “You found the people responsible. The Yard would probably be at victim number 6 by now.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes on the fabric of his pants.

* * *

Molly was looking through a report paper when the door behind her burst open and Sherlock strode in. „Please tell me that you got anything new on the poisonings.“ Sherlock asked with an almost pleading look.

Molly turned around to face him and lowered her paper. „No, sorry. Look, I’m busy right now, so-“ she stopped when Sherlock looked utterly.. broken. Just truly defeated.

He made to leave, then turned back to her. „Is my lab open again?“

„Yes, they finished some time yesterday.“ She replied, but Sherlock was already out the door by the word ‚yes‘.

* * *

Sherlock did everything he could think of. Check the computers database. Look for possible poisons that fit, reading through the victim reports over and over and over, yet two hours later he was still empty handed, now dizzy and overly irritated.

He’s rubbing his hands over his face, knowing that it won’t get him more blood but it’s like a reflex. Molly quietly enters the lab. „Are you.. alright?“ She asks, timidly taking a few steps closer.

To his surprise, instead of lashing out at her like he regrettably does with John so often, he feels like there’s a knot tying around his throat and his eyes were stinging. He’s not getting anywhere with this case and he feels miserable, now he’s getting overly emotional.

As if sensing the situation, Molly comes closer and gently puts a hand on his shoulder. „Is there anything I can do to help? Call someone? Get you anything?“

Sherlock only shakes his still hidden face and almost chokes on a sob.

Nodding to herself and biting her lip, Molly tries to find something to change the subject. She notices something familiar, which she hadn’t paid attention to before. „Oh, you got one of those watches. My last case has one.“

That got Sherlock’s attention. „What caused your last case’s death?“

Molly smiles. „It’s why I came in here. Well, and to make sure you weren’t handling any toxic substances again in here.“ Molly rambled, handing him her latest report papers. „I just finished the autopsy, it looks a lot like your case.“

Molly wholeheartedly expected Sherlock to be thrilled. To jump up, make new deductions, find new connections… she never expected to see tears falling down as he reads through the reports.

„What’s wrong? Was it somebody you knew?“ She asks, not understanding what else could cause such a reaction.

He shakes his head. „No. But this means that either somebody new is taking over the killings now, or the non-perfected lethal drugs still work, just need a much longer time. I’m going to check out her so called doctors.“ Sherlock explains, leaving the papers on the table as he gets up from the bar stool, and all but drops to the floor after three steps. He has his eyes squeezed shut and lets out a low moan of pain from the impact.

„Oh gosh!“ Molly exclaims, immediately kneeling beside him.

„Mmh, bad idea. Ow..“

„Did you eat anything today?“ Molly asks.

Sherlock finally looks at her and rolls his eyes. „It’s not blood sugar.“

„Then what-"

„It doesn’t matter. I have to get going.“ Sherlock groans as he tries to get up again.

„No! Stay down for a bit. Please. You look ready to pass out..“ Molly pleads and Sherlock sighs, but lays back down.

Bloody Molly-coddling.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people with dysautonomia end up needing some sort of feeding tube, be it because of gastroparesis (paralysis of the stomach) or weakened throat muscles.   
> For some reason, tea has become an incredible chore to swallow for me, as well as rice and most pastries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about another chapter?  
> I apologize about the quotation marks having changed. I much prefer the old ones as well..

As soon as Sherlock is out of St. Barts, he has his phone out and calling Greg. „Get on every Forum, every Facebook Group about POTS and or Dysautonomia, and tell them that anyone who has gotten any kind of medication from a Doctor Schall, they have to stop taking them _immediately_! Or better yet, call every patient that Schall ever had.“

„Wait wait, slow down. What are you on about?“

Sherlock groaned. „We don’t have time! Another person died, it’s the exact same thing!“

„Blimey.. alright, I’m getting my techs on it.“

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up. He would have to take matters into his own hands if he wants to prevent another death.

* * *

Sherlock only got to the third forum, still typing the post after yet another time consuming registration, when John was suddenly in his bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t heard him come inside, and laying on his bed with his Macbook Air resting on his hips and stomach, he feels strangely exposed.

„What are you doing here?“ Sherlock asks. Shouldn’t John be at work? He seems to be doing that a lot less recently. He looks back to the screen, reading through how far his last sentence has gotten and continuing it.

„Molly called me an hour before my shift ended.“ John waits for Sherlock to give him his attention again. When it seems like that wouldn’t happen any time soon, he strides over and takes the light laptop with ease out of Sherlock’s reach.

„John! Give it back, this is important!“ Sherlock pleads and climbs to a sitting position on the bed, crawling on all fours to the end of the mattress, reaching a hand out to get it back but John only goes further away.

„So is you pushing yourself beyond your limits all the time.“ John deadpanned.

„John, seriously, give it back. There are people _still_ dying because of Schall and.. just give it back. Please.“ Sherlock adds defeated and slowly sinks down to sit on his legs.

John finally relents, but asks „what do you mean?“ As he gives the laptop back.

„Give me a minute, then I’ll explain.“ Sherlock mutters as he types away on the notebook.

John decides that he might as well make himself useful. „Tea?“

„Please.“

* * *

When John comes back with the tray, he finds Sherlock with a hand to his forehead, hiding his face. „Headache?“ He guesses as he puts the tray down on Sherlock’s bedside table.

„Mmh, yes that too.“

„And what else?“ John hands him a steaming cup.

„I just realized that I’m an idiot. I could have just copy-pasted everything instead of always writing it anew.“ Sherlock complains, pushing the expensive notebook out of the way before accepting the cup.

„Write what exactly?“ John asks, taking a sip from his own cup.

„Molly got a new case in, same reports like the other victims.“

„Oh, shit.“ Sherlock throws him a glare. „What?“

„Oh nothing. Just my complete failure to stop a murderer from killing innocent people, ‚ _oh shit_ ‘ is hardly scratching the surface!“

„Heeey, none of that, you hear me? You’re the bloody best detective this world could have. One case doesn’t change that. If I couldn’t save a patient during surgery, would I be a failure as a doctor when I saved thousand others?“

Sherlock only stares down to his cup, watching the last few steams rise up and vanish into thin air. Part of him wants to just drink from it, like always, but recently swallowing tea has become quite a chore, as though it’s a hard mass that his throat muscles weren’t strong enough to get down. He can swallow plain water perfectly fine, coffee is just a tad bit more work, but tea is the worst.

And he loves tea.

„I think you need tea leaves, not actual drinking tea.“ John snaps him back. „For readings, you know? I don’t think it matters how long you stare at it, it probably won’t tell you anything.“

Sherlock glares at him again.

„Oh come on, it’s a _joke_.“ In his defense, Sherlock usually found his jokes funny. „Just drink your tea.“ John says, and it’s only then that Sherlock notices John’s empty cup back on the tray. He must have zoned out pretty bad.

„You’re the one who kept telling me to _care_ about my cases. Look what it’s doing to me.“

John stays quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. „Okay, well-“ he didn’t get much further because Sherlock had finally taken a sip of his tea -more or less to not look at John- and when he swallowed, most of it went down the wrong pipe. „Jesus-“ John exclaims and immediately takes away his cup before he can spill it, and starts knocking him on the back.

It takes about two minutes before he got it back under control, reflexive tears just continue to drip down on the bedsheets.

Once Sherlock gets himself composed, he takes his MacBook back on his lap. „I have to go through Facebook groups next.“ He tells John in a hoarse voice. John watches as he opens Facebook and is surprised that he is already a member of three different groups. With his real name, even.

„But this time,“ Sherlock started, going back to a forum, selects the text, presses a few keys, goes back to the Facebook page, inserts it with another set of keys, and posts it. Then he goes through his groups again and enters another group. John manages to scan the infos and is surprised that one group only has a bit over 2000 members. The one he’d been in before had almost 30.000 and this one just 10.000 members. He had personally been in a doctor group and even a PTSD group once, both with around a million members.

Then again, Sherlock was a zebra among horses. POTS or dysautonomia in general weren’t exactly common afflictions like the everyday cold. A lot of people go through their lives, never even knowing that such a thing exists.

„So, what’s with the tea?“ John asks, eyeing the still hardly touched cup.

Sherlock changes to the next group and clears his throat. „Well, it would seem that I can’t drink tea anymore.“

John can read between the lines and recognizes this behavior. „How long has this been going on?“ He knows that they are both fully aware of ‚trouble swallowing‘ being a symptom. If it gets bad enough, they’ll have to seriously think about feeding tubes, since he is at an alarmingly low weight already.

„A few weeks. Slowly been getting worse. It’s no big deal.“

„Yes it _is_ a big deal, Sherlock!“ John almost yells at him. He points to a photo of a very skinny young woman, smiling at the camera with a tube coming out of her nose, that appeared right under Sherlock’s new post. „Because this might be your future.“ He knows that Sherlock probably doesn’t want to think about the future. About his symptoms progressing, and new problems to arise.

„It’s not gonna come to that, John.“ Sherlock dismisses and lets himself lay down on his bed, closing his eyes.

„Yeah. Just like you falling asleep in the next five minute isn’t gonna happen,“ John deadpanned.

„M not fallin asleep…“

John just rolls his eyes but smiles, takes the notebook from his bed, shuts the lid and places it on the small cupboard.

He turns off the lights on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Zebra among horses" explained:  
> Doctors have a saying, "if you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras." Horses being the more common diseases, and zebras the rare diseases. Zebras have also become a symbol for EDS (Ehlers Danlos Syndrome)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated in memorial of “Chronically Jaquie” aka Jaquie Beckwith, who passed away on April 29th, 2019. I had discovered the existence of POTS through her old disability video, and shorty after had gotten my own diagnosis after two+ years of being told it was all just from my chronic major depression. Even though I only found her channel in December, months after her passing, she had inspired me so much and in so many ways. I cried for hours after I found out that she wasn’t even alive anymore. But her spirit lives on, and if I manage to do the same for others that she had done for me, then by god I will do so!


End file.
